


Arise

by Shadsie



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Adventure, Canon Divergence, Chapter 6 is creepy AF, Darkfic, Death, Drama, F/M, Fantasy, Fate still must be challenged, For Want of a Nail, Future children - Freeform, Game Over, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Grima chews the scenery, Horror, Important characters dying before their time, Injury, Left Unfinished Due to Adversity in the Life of the Author, Rated for violence and imagery not sex, Some Shepherds will die, Some lighthearted moments, Taguel Babies, Tragedy, Unfinished and Discontinued, Violence, cute fluffy bunnies, discontinued until further notice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-02 22:27:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5266088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadsie/pseuds/Shadsie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How an epic tale may have progressed after an untimely Game Over. </p><p>The events of history were not supposed to happen like this.  At the very least, these were not the events that Lucina had known.  It was all she could do to observe the new chain and to be ready to challenge an ill Fate should it arise.  It would. She knew that it would, otherwise, she would have never been sent here.  </p><p>The final fight against the Mad King Gangrel had gone according to plan - mostly.  None of the Shepherds had anticipated the loss of their tactician, least of all himself.  Life has a way of ruining the best laid plans of mice and men... However, did you think that one death, even one of a particularly fate-bound person could stop the rise of the Fell Dragon?  Darkness always has alternate strategies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He Was the Biggest Mystery of Our Group

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer and Notes:** Fire Emblem belongs to Nintendo and its various licensees. No profit or claim to fame is sought or expected. 
> 
> A “For Want of a Nail” tale. I got to thinking about Game Over deaths in the game (Chrom and the Avatar) vs. expendable characters and how vital things in the story might change if the story actually went on without one of them. 
> 
> For the purposes of readers connecting to the narrative and other factors, this story uses a generic default Robin – male. Various aspects have some basis in the adventures of both of my avatars. (My female, for instance, got killed pretty viciously by Gangrel the first time around and my male likes the furries). Some artistic license is taken (for example, I decided that I liked my version of Robin’s early childhood better than simply being “snatched from his crib”). I’ve gone on to edit this to correct a misspelled name (I apologize to those of you who were reading “Tharja” as “Thraja” for the first few chapters before the changes – I really need to pay closer attention to character-names rather than trusting my brain. A thank you to reviewer Makokam of fanfiction . net for catching that for me)! 
> 
> Cross-posted to fanfiction.net.

**ARISE**

**By Shadsie**

**Chapter 1: He Was the Biggest Mystery of Our Group**

 

 

 

They were pretty sure that he was a Plegian, but they did not care.  Robin was the biggest mystery among the Shepherds and it seemed like everyone wanted to figure him out – everyone except for the man himself. 

 

Miriel assured everyone that despite his pale skin and white hair, that it was scientifically impossible for Robin to be an albino because of his brown eyes.  Silver-hair on a young person who was not albino was not an unheard of trait among Ylisseans, but it was far more common among Plegians.  His coat was covered with Plegian designs although he just liked it for its warmth, weatherproofing and inside pockets for his magic-tomes.  The most ominous feature their tactician held on his person was the mark on his hand, a mark that he had no memory of receiving in any fashion, yet felt an instinctual need to keep covered.  Those who’d grown closest to him during their campaigns noticed that he seemed reluctant to look at it, like he was afraid of it even though he said he did not know its meaning. 

 

Everyone had their own little theories about the man that went around their campsites.  Sir Frederick thought that he was a spy for the enemy, until Robin saved his life and, more importantly, the life of Chrom.  His theory shifted to “Maybe he was supposed to be a spy but got knocked on the head really hard.”  Chrom and Lissa seemed to think that Robin’s mark was a slave-brand even though his coat was the fancy affair that one would expect to be worn by a high-level sorcerer or court-official. Gaius thought the brand was a prisoner’s tattoo for reasons he would not go into.  Tharja, a Plegian that the Shepherds had recruited from the enemy forces, said matter-of-factly that it was the Mark of Grima, something worn upon the clothing of higher members of the Grimleal cult. 

 

“He’s probably a rebel or something,” she said to Chrom dourly one afternoon.  “Someone probably tried to kill him.  The brass has very high penalties for desertion.  My poor sweet, little Robin…”

 

“I still think, whatever it was about, he was probably forced,” Chrom asserted. “That doesn’t matter now.  None of that matters now.  Robin is ours now, he’s one of us.” 

 

“I can hear you,” the subject of the conversation said as he walked past like a dark ghost, headed back to his tent from a trip to the latrine. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t stand around talking about me. There is much to do before our next march.” 

 

“Oh, so sorry, darling!” Tharja said, shifting and sliding up behind him, her hands gripping his shoulders.  “Do you need a little massage to… relax?  Or maybe a little sleeping-hex?” 

 

“Leave him alone, Tharja,” Chrom said. “That’s an order.  He’s right.  Robin needs to work and so do we.”

 

“Do me a favor and check the tomes inventory,” Robin told the dark mage.  He gave her a small smile.  “It’d be a big help to me.  I want to equip you with something really devastating.” 

 

“Very well,” Tharja acquiesced.

 

Diplomacy was one of Robin’s strong suits.  His War-Tent was always open, even when he was working late into the night.  Others tried to avoid bothering him if he was deep into concocting strategies, but if someone needed to talk, he was always willing to lend an ear.  He exchanged reading with Sumia, took to trapping game for the larders with Donnell, tried to rein in Vaike on his “love of wildflowers,”, talked science and magic with Miriel, noticed Kellam, talked Cordelia through sorrows, put up with Lissa’s playful pranks, seemed to be keeping Tharja from doing terrible things to them all though the sacrifice of some of his own patience and sanity, and he had become something of a nag to Chrom about his personal safety.  It was understandable.  Chrom had saved his life so he was big on returning the favor, even if he had already on the battlefield several times. 

 

The person everyone noticed going into his tent the most was Panne.  The last Taquel had her own reasons for being drawn to the mysterious and magnetic tactician.  First, they claimed that they were speaking about Taguel culture, which Robin was intensely interested in.  He loved to learn and he tended toward wanting to know the troops.  After a while, when they’d both miss the dinner-call, he’d cook in his tent for the both of them.  Everyone knew when Robin was trying to cook because the smell would waft over the camp – smells of burning, smells of ingredients that really shouldn’t’ go together and other things that tempted some to lose their dinner. 

 

Everyone dreaded when Robin was assigned cooking-duty.  It was one of those duties that rotated among the Shepherds being one of those “lowly” but necessary things. In fact, it would have been forgotten, leaving everyone hungry and scrambling for cold rations and depleting the hardtack if it wasn’t allotted as an assignment.  The tactician tried, he really did.  He really wanted to make something nutritious and edible and to make everyone happy.  He asked once if there was such a thing as tactics books for preparing food.

 

“Yes,” Sumia informed him.  “They’re called cookbooks.” 

 

Unfortunately, none of those had fallen off the last wagon she’d salvaged books from, so everyone had to endure Robin’s mealtimes played by his taste.   Panne seemed to like his cooking a lot.  It wasn’t humoring him, either: She genuinely seemed to enjoy it as long as he remembered not to include anything her species could not eat into his attempts at stews.  She had a love for his carrot-stew especially – which was mostly carrots boiled into a mush with a few wild-gathered herbs.  Everyone else thought it was vile while she treated it like ambrosia.  

 

There was, with Panne, a general disdain for human-animals – not without good reason, they all supposed, but it had begun to dissipate for the Shepherds over many weeks and many battles with Risen.  The way she spoke and walked alongside Robin became especially noticeable.  She had started treating him as an equal.  After a while, it seemed like there was something more between them. 

 

It was sometimes said that “love is a battlefield,” but rarely does love bloom under constant war.  It was happening among some of the Shepherds.  Fighting together and living in close quarters were getting hormones and affections up.  Sully and Kellam had a small wedding in camp.  Neither of them could afford or were inclined to anything fancy, but the Shepherds created a bower of wildflowers for them.  Chrom promised himself to Sumia after the war was through and only then.  Robin and Panne just announced one morning that they wanted to be married and went off to the woods to have some alone-time.  This was before they’d met Tharja.  Gaius put himself on “Tharja-distraction-duty” whenever Robin and his bunny-wife wanted some alone time to keep her from sneaking off after them to watch or to ruin their activities. Robin still got Panne a ring.    

 

The Shepherds had their triumphs and their tragedies.  Thanks to Robin, they lost none of their core-group.  His status as a tactician was becoming legendary even among their enemies.  His ability to minimize casualties was especially noted.  The man tried to deal with the enemy with minimal losses to their side, as well.  Risen, of course, were just wiped out wherever they appeared, but with human beings, Robin looked for paths that took as few lives as possible.  Some were tempted to call his plans foolish, but they got results.  Lissa had once said of him that “The best strategists are supposed to be a little nuts, aren’t they?  Robin’s out of his mind.  We can’t lose!” 

 

Robin had overheard and smiled at that. 

 

The only time a plan of his went south in an un-recoverable way had been very recently.  His strategy was sound until Aversa outfoxed him with overwhelming reinforcements.  Chrom was standing near to him that day.  He remembered Robin’s eyes. The white-haired man’s eyes darted to the hills, the skies and across the field, like he was already cooking up something to pull out of his tail to get them out from between the rock and the hard place when Exalt Emmeryn basically decided their next course of action for them all. After that, it was Robin who was shouting at Chrom the loudest to move.  “We have to move, gods-dammit!” – His voice had come to the prince as if it were through water.  When the Shepherds and gotten to safety, the tactician blamed himself to no end.  He was also angry.  “I was going to save her!” he said to himself, over and over again with clenched fists and tears.  That was when Panne gave him a smack and pointed to Chrom and to Lissa, who needed support more than any of the rest of them. 

 

Dawn came up like thunder on the day of the Wasteland Plan.  The Shepherds and the armies of both Ylisse and Ferox were facing off against King Gangrel and his Plegian elite forces.  The Shepherds made a small camp in the sands far from the valley and marched into it.    

 

“We’ll take him,” Robin assured Chrom as he walked beside him.  “We will avenge Emmeryn.”

 

“Of course we will.” The lord answered.  “And it will all be over.  We will create a world of peace.” 

 

“Let us pray it so,” said Libra, who was marching behind him. 

 

“I want to use our Pegasus Knights to ferry our units,” Robin said, “But I want to keep them back from frontline-fighting. I fear the archers and the mages I saw against fragile wings. My Panne can kick the guts out of the mounted enemy units.  Chrom, I think you and I should stick together and go right for the front – Sword and sorcery against the Mad King.”

 

“I like it,” Chrom said with a nod. 

 

And so the Shepherds marched, all following what had been laid out in the morning’s strategy meeting. 

 

The fighting lasted the better part of the day.  The Shepherds took injuries, but thanks to a system Robin had set up for getting the wounded back to camp in a hurry, they had no fatalities.  The Feroxi army and the regular Ylissean army did not fare as well.  The Shepherds managed to corner the Mad King against a cliff-side.  Riken and Nowi glared at him from one end of the sandy battlefield.  Tharja and Gaius from another.  Chrom and Robin came marching right up to him. 

 

Swords clashed, Falchion against a strange, jagged sword that Gangrel held.  

 

“Chrom, watch out!” Robin shouted as a bolt of lightning glanced off it and struck downward.  The prince dodged just in time. 

 

Robin let loose a spell from the first tome he could grab – a cutting Elwind spell.  It was one he normally saved for enemies on winged mounts, but it pushed Gangrel back and dealt some painful cuts.  More importantly, it gave Chrom time for a good, quick stab…

 

… Which missed.

 

This time, Gangrel set his sword to the tactician.  Robin dodged, jumping back.  Unfortunately, he misjudged the direction of the Levin-sword’s secondary bolt. 

 

It hit him square in the chest. 

 

He was sure he heard Chrom screaming as he felt himself fall.  It was funny how time could dilate sometimes – moments turning into eternities.  He heard Gangrel scream, as well, a death-cry as Chrom ran him through.   Robin felt his body hit the sand.  He also felt like he was being pulled part, his muscles stiffening and reacting in spasms without his control.  His skin felt like pins and needles were stuck all through it and that they were on fire.  He could feel muscles stretching against bones as if one or the other was going to snap.   All of the air was shut out from his lungs.  His teeth grit together nearly hard enough to crack.  He was thrashing violently with no way to stop, not until the electricity grounded. 

 

He felt like his bones were being cooked. 

 

Sparks danced over his brain.  Oh, come now! This was really unfair!  Why was his lost past coming back to him now of all times?  His body stopped hurting.  He could hear the voice of Chrom over him somewhere vaguely.  “Can’t lose you now!”  and “Open your eyes!”  It was all fuzzy-sounding with the sand in his ears and the lightning in skull. Robin tried so hard to open his eyes. His eye-fluid felt like jelly.  The lids were like heavy vault doors.  He stayed in the gathering darkness and felt distant.  Fragments came back to him – memories unbidden and without any particular chronology. 

 

They explained a lot.

 

_He was a child and very hungry.  The snow was piled up outside and the trees were covered in ice, their branches sparkling like glass.  Mother cut up some shriveled, rotten carrots and scraped them from the cutting board into a cauldron on the hearth.  This was the last of what they had in the root-cellar.  This wasn’t food for taste. It was food for survival… It was how his village did things and his mother even more so…_

_All of the children of his little Ylissean mountain-town on the border of Pelegia were expected to contribute to the hunting-chores.  He lobbed a mud-ball at his best friends from where they all stood in the bottom of the pit. They laughed and had a dirt-fight.  They were supposed to be digging a bear-trap._

_He was supposed to feed the dragon today.  He was very excited. His hand was chubby and tiny, but it already showed the chosen-one’s mark!  Father told him that this was a very special job, the holy-work that he’d been prepared all his short life for.  He carried an apple into the ceremony chamber to put on the Dragon’s Table.  He also had beef jerky in his pocket in case the dragon wanted meat, instead, but apples were good food.  That’s when the men in the long coats and hoods grabbed him and tied up his ankles and his wrists.  He was crying and thrashing._

 

_The first time he ever killed anyone was when he was sixteen.  The village was under attack from bandits that had come over the border.  All of the young people of the village were expected to defend it from age twelve on.  He’d been studying magic and how to wield elemental tomes.  Everyone usually chased bandits away without much trouble.  He got quite good at it with his friends, devising strategies based upon the lay of the land.  He cornered a ruffian who held a long knife to his neighbor, a younger boy who studied magic with him.  His friend could not reach for his own tome, so he let loose an electric spell from a thin thunder book with enough finesse to wend around the bandit and his hostage. It stuck the bandit precisely where aimed.  The criminal fell and jerked and writhed. It looked pretty awful.  He had his first whiskey that night.  The village celebrated him as a hero, but he didn’t feel happy. The friend he’d saved was at the bar with him and that made him feel better._

_He thought he was in love once, but the village maiden rejected him and married the town drunk._

_No one beat his mother at any board game, until he started to win against her every time.  Checkmate! Checkmate! Checkmate!_

_She fell sick and died of pneumonia half a year before he set out for travel to pursue a dream._

_He decided that he wanted to go to a school in Ylisstol to do formal study to become a proper tactician. He wanted to learn how to protect his village and perhaps all of his adopted country.  Mother said he certainly had the brains for it, but that he needed to keep his right hand covered at all times.  Despite this, she gave him the priest’s robe she’d stolen to keep them both warm against the land’s arid chill  the night she’d stole him off the Table.  He’d needed something to remind him of where he’d come from._

_He did not want to feed Father’s dragon if it meant it was going to eat his soul! Mama! Help me! I don’t want die!_

_He met his mirror image in a field. He had not expected the doppelganger to attack him. He’d been hurt and he felt himself fading… Who was the man with the blue hair? Why did he just kill him?_

 

Robin vaguely felt himself being lifted, as though someone was trying to carry him. He tried to say “I’m sorry,” but words could not come to a dry-cooked tongue and to emptied lungs.  Robin only saw darkness. 

 

No more pain. 

 

Don’t cry, Chrom, it doesn’t sound good on you. 

 

The sparks danced off his brain.  He felt his heart stop.

 

“Libra!” Chrom shouted.  “Help!  Mend him, now!” 

 

Chrom turned back to the tactician in his arms.  “Robin! No! We can’t lose you now! Open your eyes! Open your eyes!”  

 

The prince shook his friend’s limp form.  The fingers shivered and the limbs jerked as lines of electricity ran over them and vanished.  A few spots of blood showed through the burned shirt where the bolt had landed. The white-haired man wasn’t answering.  Libra, the priest and healer, waved his mending staff, sending magical energies into the prone body.  They glanced off it completely and shimmered into the ether. 

 

Libra bent down, putting his robes and scabby knees into the thick sand.  He took one of Robin’s hands and examined the wrist.  To Chrom’s consternation, the war monk grabbed the edge of the cowl on Robin’s coat and pulled it over the still man’s face.  Chrom looked at him in disbelief. Libra shook his head. 

 

“Heal him,” Chrom said pitifully. 

 

“There is nothing I can do for him but pray, Chrom,” he answered. 

 

“You mean?” 

 

“Robin is dead.” 

 

“No… no… this can’t be.”

 

“He was brave and he fought well,” the priest said.  “Now he gets to take his rest.”

 

There was nothing left to do but to clean up and see to the welfare of the Shepherds.  Chrom gave his orders to those nearby as he gathered his friend’s body into his arms and made his way back to camp.  He’d dealt with dead soldiers before, but this felt different.  It seemed unfair that a man who did not have a past to call his own had so quickly lost his future.  If only he hadn’t missed that vital strike!   The sacrifices of this war were wearing on them all. 

 

“First Emmeryn” the prince whispered to himself.  He was still feeling the loss of his sister keenly – a sister that had been more like a mother to him.  Now the man with whom he’d found a strange, indescribable connection – a best friend - was so heavy in his arms he could not stand it!  And of course, the brain – this war might be finally over, but should anything else break out, Ylisse needed this man! Robin’s brilliance was something they’d never see again. 

 

Chrom walked to the War-Tent instead of to the Medical-Tent upon arriving at camp.  He carefully laid Robin down in his own cot.  He sat in the chair by the desk to rest, sighing heavily.  There were curious murmurs outside.  Someone said something about Vaike and Gaius trying to stop Tharja from pursuing retreating and surrendering enemies while lobbing dark magic everywhere. 

 

Panne peeked in.  “Chrom?” she asked.  “I heard something about Robin being hurt, but that you brought him here.”

 

All Chrom could do was to look up from his position of being hunched over in the chair. 

 

“I hear your heartbeat,” the Taguel said, “But I do not hear his.” 

 

“That is because he has none,” was all Chrom could choke out as the rabbit-warrior knelt down by Robin’s cot. 

 

“I see,” she said dully as she stroked Robin’s cheek.  She closed her eyes.  “Did he fight well?” 

 

“Yes, very,” Chrom answered. 

 

Panne continued to kneel and to stroke her late husband’s face.  “My warren,” she said softly.  “He was my warren.” 

 

“I’m so sorry, Panne.” 

 

“There was something that I was waiting to tell him,” she said, her voice uncharacteristic of her, on the edge of cracking.  “I was waiting until this fight was over.  I did not want him to worry about me nor to give him news that would distract him from his work.”

 

“Oh?” Chrom said, curiosity peaked. 

 

“I,” she began, struggling.  “We… I know you humans can’t detect it, but I can smell it on myself.  It is in the early stages, but I am with a litter.” 

 

Chrom just stared.  “Panne… after the war was over…I was planning to keep Robin on as an advisor.  This meant that he would work and live at the palace in Ylisstol. I was going to give you two a set of rooms at the castle to live in if you both were willing to take it.”  The young lord smiled a sad, but genuine smile.  “My offer still stands – for you and your family.” 

 

“We were going to be a family,” Panne said forlornly as she laid her head down upon Robin’s unmoving chest. 

 

Chrom stood and left to talk with Flavia and Basillo as well as to inform his troops of their gains and their losses.  

 

On a cliff-side a lone figure watched the camp, long blue hair blowing in the wind. She was undetected. 

 

“Fate had other plans for this world, it seems,” she said.  “This is all wrong! It wasn’t supposed to go this way!  It just means that history is different here already…” 

 

She knew, somehow, that she still needed to change Fate. 

 

Lucina’s timeline had been different.  What she knew of the past from study was fragmented and certain events seemed to be going at a more rapid pace in sequence here than in the world she’d known.  For one thing, the Plegian war had lasted longer in her timeframe.  Her Aunt Emmeryn – whom she had never known personally – had been killed, but under different circumstances, ones she’d prevented only for her to die anyway by her own choice.  She knew that Emm’s death had lead to a devastating chain-reaction of events and suspected that even the differing death would create the same chain.  There was still the clear and present danger that the Fell Dragon was going to rise in this timeline just as it had in hers, otherwise, Naga would not have dropped her here.

 

She had to set right what once went wrong, but Lucina was confused as to what, exactly, would break the sequence.   

 

One thing she knew that had tipped the scales was that in her world, the Shepherds had not lost their tactician this early.  Lucina had known her Uncle Robin.  She’d grown up with him.  He’d been her father’s advisor and friend and he babysat her frequently.  He’d taught her many games.  He smelled like ions and magic and had a wonderful laugh.  She and her sister argued about who was going to use him to help them with their study-homework.  She’d played all the time with his children, her honorary-cousins Morgan and Yarne.

 

Uncle Robin had disappeared mysteriously in her timeline but it was not at this point in history at all.  He’d gone missing around the same time her father had been reported killed-in-action.  She certainly could not have remembered him if he’d died during this battle – and as he existed in this world, he just had.

 

“No…” was all she could say.  “This is all wrong…” 

 

She did not yet know where to go from here.  For now, she remained an observer of an alternate history unfolding.    

 

 

 

**_Forward, march!_ **

 

 


	2. Carnivores, Herbivores and Scavengers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life in Ylisstol wasn't suiting Panne, especially since not even the best of guards and Shepherds could keep a certain dark mage who'd been obsessed with her late husband from stalking the children he'd left her. On top of this, another rude awakening was to be had. Sometimes, the dead cannot rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Notes: I took creative liberties in regards to the Taguel children, at least in the main-timeline (as it stands in this story). I am aware that, canonically, Morgan and a Robin/Avatar--bred Yarne are not twins, but I wanted them to exist. This says nothing about the future-timeline children, who may retain their differing birthdays and ages. Sure, it’s biologically unlikely-to-impossible if they are connected (but having done lots of Legend of Zelda work up until now, I’ve decided that time-travel plots make little sense, anyway)._

**ARISE**

**Chapter 2: Carnivores, Herbivores and Scavengers**

 

 

 

Panne watched her children sleep.  They looked so small tangled up in the red sheets of the big bed, cuddled up against each other and taking up only the edge.  True Taguel these two were.  As true Taguel, it of course had taken forever to get them to sleep.  The young mother had heard that even human parents of pure-human children tended to have trouble getting offspring to take their proper rest when they were this age, but of course, what was energetic for a human was merely decent for a Taquel. 

 

Outside observers would never guess that Yarne and Morgan were twins. They had many differences between them.  Both were growing quickly – at an advanced rate compared to the growth-rate of human children.  Yarne was the larger of the two, with a body that looked to be a year in advance of his actual age.  Despite this, the little bunny-boy had a timid nature and tended to like hiding around his mother’s legs wherever they went.  He appeared to have the makeup of a full-bloodline Taquel despite having been sired by a human father.  Perhaps it was a quirk of Robin’s blood that had allowed for this, Panne guessed.  She’d never told him that part of the reason that she’d chosen him as her mate was that she thought he looked like he had excellent genes.  She’d also had a thing for silver-white as a fur-color. It was a multitude of other things about him that had won her over, in the end, but it was true that she secretly had eyes for certain looks on males. 

 

Morgan was the runt.  Panne noted that Yarne took after her (in body, if not yet in courage).  The second-born of her twin-litter was Daddy’s Little Girl.  This was both a good thing and bad thing.  It was good in that she was precocious.  She displayed a high degree of intelligence and curiosity – which drove Panne nuts, as little Morgan was always getting into things and solving puzzles of “how to get to that thing that Mommy put out of reach.” The child had a clearly-marked keenness of mind of a kind Panne was sure she’d inherited from Robin.  However, Morgan did not carry as much Taquel in her as her brother did.  She was a half-Taquel and suffered some health problems because of it.  She was small and cried a lot from what Panne was sure was muscle-aches. She seemed to have inherited a measure of her father’s breathing-problems and proclivity for catching fevers.  Robin had occasionally put a sticky bandage on the bride of his nose to open up his sinuses.   Also, where Robin had a tendency to over-work, Morgan had, at this age, a tendency to over-play and over-explore. 

 

She wondered about small things such as whether or not Yarne and Morgan would develop different food preferences in the future. They had tasted palace-fare since they’d begun eating solid food.  Yarne did seem to like what was on Mommy’s plate while Morgan was broader in taking whatever was offered to her. She seemed to have a more human taste and human stomach. Panne wondered regarding this because she always found it a bit strange that she’d fallen in love with Robin, in part, over food. Others saw him as a terrible chef and someone with odd tastes in general.  She enjoyed herbs, leafy vegetables and carrots.  He ate the usual man-spawn foods but was, in his preferences, practically a carnivore.  Even with that, he most liked what others called exotic meats, being inordinately fond of things like liver and eel dishes and bear-flesh. Panne did not mind this. To her, bears were predators and needed some of their number cut back.  She did wonder if, somewhere in Robin’s lost past was some survival-subsistent hunting-village – and she hoped it wasn’t one that ever hunted Taguel. 

 

Panne stroked the children’s hair gently, each in turn, as she yawned.  She and Robin had made beautiful bunnies. 

 

The rabbit-warrior’s eye caught one of the framed drawings above the bed – a portrait of Robin that Libra had made while the man was still living.  The priest had made several drawings of members of the Shepherds and had given this to her after Robin had met the end of his journey.  He said that Robin had requested the piece as a “reminder to himself of his glory-days for when he was old and wrinkled.” 

 

“I wish I could show them to you,” she said with a rueful smile directed at the art-piece.  “Especially Morgan since I’m pretty sure it won’t be long before she starts outsmarting me and I’ll be cursing you for leaving me alone with her.” 

 

A voice quietly wafted over the room, thin and whispery.  

 

“You might be able to show them to him…” 

 

Panne immediately stiffened.  After that, her eyes narrowed and glowed at their edges.  How that terrible creature could hide so well in the shadows as to evade her night-vision Panne never could figure out.  Nonetheless, here she was – in her private chambers. 

 

It had not been the first time she’d managed to get in here, slipping guards and using lock-picking techniques that Gaius had taught her.   

 

“Why are you here, Tharja?” 

 

The dark mage slid out of the shadows. 

 

“Oh, come now… I was just observing.  You know I never do any harm.  In fact, you could say that I am protecting your family from enemy forces that are as dark as I am.  You are an endangered species after all.  You can use an extra set of eyes on you.”    


Panne grumbled.  It was true that Tharja, so far, had done nothing unseemly.  In the two years since Robin had died and she’d had the bunnies, the young Plegian woman had become uncomfortably close.  It seemed that she had replaced her stalking of Robin with the stalking of his children. 

 

“I think a better question is: Why are you still here?”  Tharja said as she casually inspected her sharp fingernails.  “I am getting a little bored with slipping past the guards in this palace.   I thought you’d be off to the wild by now.  Isn’t that where you Taguel are supposed to live, in holes in the ground?” 

 

Panne twitched.  “My claws would find your throat if I was not worried about waking my exhausted children with the noise of your squeaking,” she growled.  “Be careful that I do not change my mind.” 

 

“Palace life does not suit you.” 

 

Panne had been given a job as a guard in order to continue making use of her skills as a Shepherd during peacetime.  She had plans to leave to find some nice remote place for her and her kind to live by themselves according to what she remembered about the ways of  being a Taguel, but Ylisstol provided excellent protection (Tharja aside, but nobody knew when or how she came and went).  Panne was concerned that her children – who represented the future of her species – might be too fragile to live in the wild yet, particularly Morgan with her delicate health. 

 

“Anyway,” Tharja continued, “I think I have found a way that you, I and all of us might be able to speak with Robin.” 

 

“We’ve all been to the royal cemetery, Tharja. I tire of talking to a stone.”

 

“But obviously not to a drawing,” the mage observed. 

 

“He’s dead, Tharja,” Panne retorted.  “He has been dead for quite some time.” 

 

“Not for so long that he’s out of my reach,” Tharja said, as if trying to remind a dense person of an elementary truth. 

 

“If this is one of your parlor tricks of the kind you play on poor Gregor, forget it.” 

 

“Oh, touchy, touchy.  Did the bunny nibble a bad piece of lettuce today?  No… the truth is; I have finally been able to gather the final piece to a very strong spell.  I have been searching for it for two years.  I’ve had to do some interesting… negotiations… but it is mine now.” 

 

“I have no interest in your spells,” Panne spat.  “The only thing I am interested in right now is evicting you from the premises and changing the locks – again.” 

 

“Ooh, a challenge. I think you might want to hear about this spell.  I am going to need you for it if it stands any chance at working.” 

 

“I am not a sacrifice for some altar. Neither are my young.” 

 

“I promise that it will not hurt – much.  What I need is a gathering of the people who were closest to Robin. I’ll draw out the symbols that I needed to do interesting things to acquire on an oaken table in black oil. After that, all I’ll require is a thumb-prick of blood from each of you with the subject’s very closest friends smearing in the center.”  Tharja sighed and cocked her head.  “After that, it’s elementary.  I gathered the other physical components to the spell I needed long ago.” 

 

“Physical components?” 

 

Tharja withdrew a little vial she had tucked away only Naga knew where.  Within the glass was combination of red and a cloudy fluid, the red substance at the bottom, darkening at the tip and the clear stuff at the top. The dark mage tapped it with her fingers. “I snuck into the War-Tent took a few things from Robin the night after that gangrenous mongrel took him from me.  You did not notice his nicely-trimmed nails when he was in his coffin? I was very careful with them.  Tsk, tsk. And this… this is very important – a little blood from the killing-wound, suspended in a preservative.  Large amounts of electric magic don’t always kill neat and clean, you know. My poor sweet Robin had quite an open burn.” 

 

Panne flicked her ears back over her head and held them flat.  “Get. Out!” she growled, clenching a fist and rising from her seat by the bed. 

 

“With my special ingredients and a proper communication-spell, if I get your help, I think I can bring Robin’s spirit back to us for just about an hour’s time.  Unfortunately, it’s not a channeling-spell so he will not be inside me.  A pity, that.  I’ve always wanted to feel him inside me.” 

 

Panne grabbed a Beaststone off one of the shelves.  At this point, she did not care about waking the children.  When the noise of a table falling over and a water pitcher crashing to the floor under the span of Panne’s considerably large transformation inevitably woke them both up and set Yarne to crying, Panne had stopped worrying over it. 

 

Tharja cringed.  There was no worse sound in nature than a rabbit’s scream and Yarne had a healthy set of lungs on him. After she got over the momentary stunning, she ran for her life out into the hall and through the corridors of Ylisstol-palace, a giant killer rabbit on her tail. 

 

She swept past the royal quarters.  The thundering paws of Panne that came in behind the slippery mage shook the floorboards, tiles and stones and created enough commotion to wake the crown prince’s recently-born baby girl in her nursery. An upset-Lucina could almost rival a startled Yarne. 

 

And so the halls of Ylisstol echoed with the noises of a dark mage casting random, hasty hexes, a furious Taguel on the warpath and at least three very vocal crying babies.  The castle’s acoustics were very deep and it sounded like there were more babies.    

 

A grumpy, sleepy Chrom yawned and blindly grabbed a spear off the wall of throne room as he wandered into it just when Tharja was shortcutting through it.  He threw the spear, expertly pinning Tharja to the opposite wall by her cape. She was held fast and tripped.  Fredrick and a pair of guards apprehended her. 

 

Panne transformed back into her usual self.  “That one should be executed,” she said. 

 

“She may be one of us,” Chrom said, “But I’m half-tempted to.  You, as well.”

 

“Me? Chrom, she preformed breaking and entering into my chambers – again! She is stalking my children!”

 

“I can’t have you transforming in the halls and wreaking bunny-hell all over the place! Listen.  I am not going to do anything to either of you.  If I did, I’m sure it wouldn’t be the judgment of the gods I’ll have to worry about the day I die, but Robin kicking my keister all up and down the land of the dead.  But this… this has got to end.” 

 

Sumia came in, gently rocking a bundled-up Lucina in her arms.  Lissa came up behind her in her nightgown with a bewildered but calmed Yarne and Morgan in tow by her feet. 

 

“I’ll see to cleaning up, M’lord,” Fredrick said. 

 

“Nevermind that, Frederick,” Chrom said, holding up a hand.  “I’d like you to escort Tharja to the dungeon for a few days.  Give her a cell with relative comfort. I’d just like to know where she is while we sort out our differences. Frisk her for any kind of lock-picking materials – even the tiniest wire.”

 

“Frisk….” Thraja said with a leer directed at Frederick.  “Sounds kinky.” 

 

Lissa frowned. 

 

After Tharja was taken away, Panne spoke cautiously with Chrom as she walked with him back to her chambers.  

 

“I’ll talk to her later,” he said. “You usually aren’t like this, Panne.  You’ve kept your cool with her before. I understand your fears, but I do think that Tharja is mostly harmless.  I am certain that she would never do anything to harm any children of Robin’s.” 

 

“What was the worst you ever caught her doing to him?” 

 

“She just liked to watch him sleep… and to look over his shoulder at this strategic work.  She’d try to brew love potions on him that didn’t work.  It was very weird.  She had this kind of… borderline worship of him, I’d say, like there was something in him that made her all funny.  The very worst any of us saw her doing to him was when Vaike caught her kissing him on the lips when he was unconscious from a fever.  He chased her off him.”

 

Panne shuddered.  “And you tell me not to fear?”

 

“She was also using a cold compress on him, so she was trying to help him… in her own way.  It’s hard to tell anything with Tharja.  If it’s all the same, I’d rather her have reasons to curb her hexes on us and to continue to use them on our enemies.”

 

“So you are using my bunnies as a leash?” 

 

“Um..uh…” 

 

“She was disrespecting the dead, you know.” 

 

“How so?”

 

“She told me she found some kind of spell to bring Robin back – but just for an hour.”

 

“Dark mages do know some arcane and mysterious ways.”

 

“It is unnatural, provided she isn’t telling lies.  Even if it did work, as much as I miss him, I am certain he does not want to be disturbed from his rest.” 

 

Chrom yawned loudly.  “Yeah, I guess we all know what that is like.” 

 

“I do not think you will have to worry about me for much longer,” Panne said. 

 

“Hmm?”

 

“I was waiting until Yarne and Morgan were grown up enough to stand a good chance of surviving somewhere… less…human.  Dealing with Tharja tempts me to progress my schedule.  I have been thinking of taking my family and going somewhere on our own – out in the wilderness.  I’d like to find a quiet patch of land where we can live as Taguel – and maybe farm carrots.”

 

“The Shepherds would sorely miss you,” Chrom answered, “but you must do what you think is best for you and your warren.” 

 

“I also consider the Shepherds to be my warren,” Panne said, “so it is that much harder to make a decision.” 

 

“A well-considered decision is everything.” 

 

“Sadly, I am not a tactician.  I am a just a standard Taguel-warrior.”

 

 

 

 

At mid-morning, Panne was abruptly awakened by furious knocking at her door. She quickly slipped on her usual light body-armor and opened it to meet a very-upset Lissa.  The bunnies yawned and curled up back into each other’s fur.  Panne scratched an ear and asked Lissa what had inspired her to come running up here. 

 

“Panne!” the princess exclaimed.  “You have to come outside quick!  To…to”

 

“To where?  Is there a Risen invasion? Are we under attack from Plegian rogues?”

 

“We don’t know!” Lissa yelped.  “We aren’t under attack, but… The graveyard!”

 

“What about it?” 

 

“Robin’s grave has been desecrated!”    


“What?” 

 

Lissa nodded.  “Come on.  I can call someone to watch Yarne and Morgan.  Just come on.”

 

The world was gray outside the windows, misty with a cold rain.  Panne grabbed a coat off a hook on the wall and put it on.  She put up the hood.  This, of course, had been Robin’s coat.  She’d kept it because she’d wanted to eventually give it to one of the children.  It was not something she usually wore, but when the weather was bad, she would make use of its warmth.  It always calmed her, somehow.  Even after all this time, it carried Robin’s scent.  It was not detectible to humans, but a more sensitive kind of nose could pick it up.  Wrapping herself up in it made her feel like Robin’s spirit was with her – the kind of feeling that one gets from the artifacts left by those one has loved and lost.   

 

Into the annoying speckle-rain she ran, out to the royal cemetery with Lissa coming up behind.  She startled the various members of the Shepherds (those who happened to be living in Ylisstol at the time) who’d gathered at a specific spot.  It amused her – the thought that for just a split-second they thought they were seeing a ghost.  She lowered the cowl briefly with a smirk before putting it back to protect her head and ears from the icy droplets of this inconvenient morning. 

 

“Curious,” Miriel said as she bit a fingernail and joined Chrom in staring at an open pit.

 

The headstone was askew, but intact.  It bore simple decoration, a few flourishes inspired by plants and a small engraving resembling a sword and shield to mark the deceased as Ylissean military. The Mark of Naga was absent.  Although it was a symbol of the nation, that mark was reserved for the grave-markers of royalty.  The Shepherds had decided that anything too fancy would probably just embarrass Robin in the afterlife. 

 

Since his bloodline was unknown, he’d been given the surname of “Shepherd” as an honorific. Below “Sir Robin Shepherd” was inscribed the title that Chrom was planning to give him had he survived the war – “High Deliverer.” The date of his death was inscribed, but no one knew the year of his birth.  He’d known when his birthday was supposed to be, but not the year nor how old he was, although he’d been a young man.    

 

The grave beneath the drunken tombstone had been excavated.  Rain was making the rich dirt muddy.  It looked almost as though it had exploded, but there were no shards of casket wood nor were there shreds of anything unspeakable scattered about. 

 

Panne scraped the ground with the claws on her bare right foot.  She grit her teeth. “I want to know what dastards did this,” she seethed. 

 

“By the physical evidence,” Miriel said, pushing her misted-over eyeglasses up onto her face, “I’d say that the miscreants took the casket entire with a great degree of caution and absconded with it readily.  The wagon tracks disappear as conveniently as Kellam does after about five steps. Truly, a confounding enigma.” 

 

“I’m right here!” a certain knight protested.  “We have to find out who has done this and bring them to justice – or at least bring our friend back home.  We… couldn’t do that for Lady Emmeryn...”

 

Chrom and Lissa winced.    

 

“I don’t suppose he cares where he is if he’s dead,” Sully added in, “Though I’ll gladly kill those godsdamed fools as soon as we find them.” 

 

“Why would anyone do such a horrible thing?”  Nowi cried.  The little manakete was all tears. “First poor Robin had to die and now… he can’t even be left alone!”

 

Ricken put an arm around her, sniffling himself.  “It feels like there is dark magic here and don’t people use… weird stuff like stuff from a body for hexes?”

 

“Yes,” Miriel informed.  “Much of dark magic is biological-magic. Blood and plasma are common ingredients as well as keratin, bone and marrow…I have heard that the rendered fat of a hanged criminal can be used for powerful incantations.  I have also listened to rumors about the existence of powerful dark tomes bound in human epidermal tissue.  Such items are even more desirable if the crafting materials come from bodies of those with magical acumen. Robin certainly did fit the appropriate criteria and he had come into a degree of renown. Even after these two years of being buried, the magic present in his mortal frame may have merely coalesced and increased in potency for such uncommon spells…It is all quite fascinating to ponder.  ”

 

“Enough! Enough!” Ricken said, holding up a hand.  “Say, where is Tharja?  Do you think she might have something to do with this?” 

 

“No,” Panne said.  “The air does not smell of her musk, although it is difficult for me to smell anything in this wretched weather.  Also, unless she’s slipped her bonds, she should be in the dungeon.” 

 

“She is,” Chrom said with confirming nod.  “I checked on her this morning before the messenger came in with this grim news.” 

 

“Who found it like this?”  the Taguel asked.   

 

“One of our war-widows who’d come to leave flowers on the grave of her soldier.” 

 

“I see.” 

 

Panne wandered to a part of the cemetery that hadn’t had a weeding in a while and picked a wildflower – the fluffy white-blossomed top to a wild carrot.  She wandered back to the grave and tossed the flower in. 

 

“We will figure this out,” Chrom promised.  “We’ll bring Robin home.” 

 

 

 

 ** _Forward, march!_**     

 

 


	3. A Voice from the Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Panne was skeptical of dark magic rituals and could not believe Chrom had gotten himself roped into this sideshow. When the specter that Tharja had conjured called her "Cottontail," however, doubt was removed and replaced with love and grief a-fresh. 
> 
> Sadly, there remains the matter of a missing corpse and blacker magic than what a simple dark mage-soldier was capable of.

**ARISE**

**Chapter 3: A Voice from the Void**

 

 

The Shepherds gathered in the War Room.  The feel and the scent of the place was familiar to Panne – old paper and maps, vine charcoal and ink used to mark them and to scrawl out battle-plans, leather from bindings, candle-wax and lantern oil.  Her children sniffed at the air, as well.  They walked beside her, uncomfortable in their clothes.  They were still getting used to wearing things like the loose leather armors that allowed for shape shifting that Taguel were expected to wear. The War Room also smelled of dust from many large pieces of furniture having been recently moved to open up the area for simple chairs for everyone to sit in as an audience. 

 

Tharja said that it would be more likely for Robin’s spirit to appear if he were summoned to a place that was familiar to him. He hadn’t spent a lot of time here, at the palace in Ylisstol – not nearly as much time as he’d spent in tents, but this had been his space during intervals when the Shepherds had been “home.”  Panne was skeptical of the whole affair, certain it would not work or that Tharja was just going to play some dark magician’s trick on them, perhaps asking them for money after the ordeal.  She could not believe that the mage had suckered Chrom into this.  All the same, here they were – most of the original Shepherds, pinpricking their thumbs to leave smears of blood upon a magic-sigil (why did Tharja have to completely ruin Robin’s old desk?) 

 

As Panne sat down, sitting her children down in chairs next to her, she noticed the variant reactions to Tharja and her incantations.  Frederick sat stoic next to Chrom with Lissa at her side.  Lissa was smiling, Frederick was frowning.  Chrom had a look on his face that Panne would describe as “stupidly hopeful.”  Gaius was chewing on a lollypop.  Gregor slapped a knee and laughed, “Oh, Gregor can’t wait to see his friend again! Evil-girl can do it! If I got to talk to brother, we’ll get to talk to Robin!” 

 

Libra edged close to Nowi and Ricken.  He had a guilty cast to his face as he looked at the thumb of one hand and clutched a staff with the other hand.  He was worried that he was doing something against his order, something unholy, by participating in this.  Sumia rocked Lucina in her arms, standing up in the back of the room.  She muttered something about not seeing anything in her fortunes.  Cordelia leaned on the wall next to her.  She said something about how she thought that if this works, she might like to have Tharja try conjure up Phila for her, or Emmeryn because she had many things left unsaid.  Miriel pushed her glasses up on her nose and said something about finding dark magic rituals fascinating. 

 

Muttering something arcane and unintelligible, Tharja cast energy that resembled the blackest and most toxic smoke onto the desk while pouring a few drops from the vial of Robin’s blood she’d been carrying all this time.   A reaction of purple lightning rose up from where the drops landed and crackled through the air, sending static into everyone’s hair.  Yarne cuddled close to his mother’s side as the black curls of smoke that rose up from the desk formed into something that could only be called a large, dark vortex, opening onto a void. 

 

Motes of light formed within the void like stars as Tharja made a motion with her hands like she was a weaver pulling invisible threads.  The light gathered and formed into a figure, washed out like watercolor and transparent, but instantly recognizable. 

 

The specter of Robin blinked and looked at his hands.  His face was locked in an expression of pure confusion as he touched his chest.  It was Chrom’s voice that brought him to attention. 

 

“Robin?”

 

“C-Chrom?” the ghost asked.  “Chrom!  Panne! Everyone! Why are you all…why am I?  This is my study in Ylisstol… we aren’t in the Wastes anymore? What’s going on?”   

 

Robin looked back at his hands again and saw the light of the room going through his coat.  He blinked and it took him a moment to put two and two together. 

 

“I died, didn’t I?” 

 

Everyone nodded as one.  “I’m sorry,” Chrom said.

 

“I managed to draw you back through the threads of connections you have with us,” Tharja explained.  “Welcome back, my love, but this is a temporary spell.” 

 

“I’ll make use of it, then,” Robin said with a smile.  The spirit walked over to Panne, who stood up. 

 

“Is it really you, Robin?” Panne asked.  She shivered slightly as she held Yarne close and as Morgan gripped her by the chest-fur.  “I expect this to be some dark sorcery trick.”

 

“By the soulful way you’re looking at me, I’d say you’ve missed me, Cottontail.” 

 

Panne breathed a sigh of relief.  It was a pet-name that was unknown to the others.  In fact, she’d probably have to beat a few people up later for teasing her with it. 

 

“Snowbird…” 

 

They leaned into each other and touched noses – flesh to sketchy outline, twitching them against each other.  

 

Gaius, from his place at one end of the room, noticed the jealousy in Tharja’s eyes from the other end.  The friendly thief felt a pang of jealousy, himself.  He’d been with Tharja for a long time, even as he knew that she’d always hold another first in her heart.  Their “marriage,” such as it was, had come with an unusual arrangement.  Gaius insisted that he and Tharja would belong to each other most days and nights, but if he got the urge to savor the “sweet candies” of the dance halls once in a while, that he would be allowed to.  In exchange, Tharja had been free to pursue bed-privileges with Robin if she could convince him to give them to her.  As it was, the tactician never had and now that he was dead, Gaius sometimes pretended to be Robin for Tharja to illicit her elusive smile.  It got to be quite grating, however.  He really did wish the dark mage was well and truly his.

 

Much to Tharja’s annoyance, even in death, the tactician was well and truly Panne’s. 

 

Panne separated from the specter and presented the two children before her.  “Meet your children.”

 

Robin’s ghostly eyes widened.  “My children?”

 

“I was with them when extinction found you,” Panne said.  “This is your son, Yarne, and this is your daughter, Morgan. I remembered that you’d wanted to name one of our future children Morgan.”

 

“Daddy?” Morgan asked, looking up.

 

Yarne clutched his mother’s leg and hid his face. 

 

“Yeah, that’s your daddy,” Panne said.

 

Morgan tried to touch him.  “Sparky… light…all sparky…”

 

Robin smiled and wept spectral tears.  He cursed his lack of a physical form because he could not touch or feel anything. It seemed the spell only allowed him to see, hear and speak. “Hey, Yarne…. It’s okay…” he said softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.  Dead people can’t hurt you, okay?” 

 

The little Taguel boy cautiously reached out to “touch” his father’s face.  He smiled and bounced lightly on his haunches. 

 

Robin sighed.  “Panne, if I’d known…”

 

“You would have gone into battle distracted and you might not have gone at all. You probably would have ordered me off the battle,” Panne answered matter-of-factly.  “You wouldn’t have been there and present-minded to help Chrom, he probably would have been killed and we would be in an even worse situation.  The war ended, Robin.  We’ve been at peace.” 

 

“How long have I been gone?”

 

“Two years.”

 

“They’re so grown…”

 

“They are Taguel.”

 

“Well, I was hoping that I could go somewhere without war, where I’d be out of a job but glad of it.” 

 

“Don’t you come from such a place?” Libra interjected.  “I mean, surely, in the land of the dead…”

 

Robin shook his incorporeal head.  “I’ve been nowhere, Libra.  At least, I don’t have any memory of being anywhere.” The ex-tactician smiled sourly, “I guess that’s a problem with me, isn’t it?”

 

“You… haven’t been anywhere?” 

 

“It kind of felt like going to sleep… after the hurting stopped.”  He noticed the distress on Chrom’s face and decided to be honest.  “I suffered. I know you don’t want to hear that, but I did. The bolt from Gangrel’s sword hurt like nothing I’d ever felt before.  It ran all through my body… and then everything was dark and I felt really sleepy.” He turned to Libra.  “It’s not so bad, really.” 

 

“You’re a good man, Robin!” the priest protested.  “You deserve better!” 

 

“Good…” he sighed.  “That might be a matter of perspective.  I’ve killed people. I’m not sure those folk would call me ‘good.” 

 

“We’ve all killed people, Robin,” Chrom said.  “You know as well as I do that it was only by necessity – to protect ourselves… to protect innocent people.” 

 

Robin shrugged.  “I don’t think I’ve been trapped in a starless night because of my work.  I think it may be because of what I am.”

 

“What you are?” Chrom asked.  Panne was at attention.  Everyone was looking toward the ghost of their late friend. 

 

“When I was dying,” Robin began, “I… I got my past back.  Memories came to me as the lightning was arcing across my brain.”  He paced.  Tharja seemed to be working the spell again to try to keep him there. Sweat was pouring down her brow and her eyes were twitching.  “I’m not exactly a normal, innocent person.  I am a Plegian, as we’ve all guessed… but it turns out that I’m sort of an unwitting member of the Grimleal cult.”

 

“What?” Libra asked.  “Unwitting? Robin…”

 

Robin held up a spectral hand.  “It doesn’t seem to have marked my soul, but that mark I had on my hand?  Don’t you remember it, Chrom?  I know Panne does.”

 

Chrom nodded. 

 

“I’m the son of one of the higher officials in Pelegia, and of the priestly order – of the Grimleal. I was bred into the world for the sole purpose of becoming the vessel for the awakening of the Fell Dragon, Grima.” 

 

Everyone gasped and was at rapt attention.  “Oh, I _knew_ you were special,” Tharja said, sultry as silk.  

 

“So,” Robin continued, “I’m a Fellblood.  My mother saved me and took me to a border-village to raise me so, I’m also a refugee and sort of became Ylissean that way.” He looked at Libra, “It may be that a Fellblood just isn’t worthy of the blessings you enjoy. Maybe my status as a vessel means it’s my destiny to just fade away… sleeping forever.” 

 

“You deserve better,” Libra assured.  “We will pray for you – more than we already have.”

 

“He is right,” Chrom said.  “You deserve more than this.  Your origins are not your fault at all! You have saved too many of my people’s lives not to deserve better than what you got!” 

 

“It’s okay, it really is,” Robin said, holding his hand up.  “It would be nice to have more, but I am at peace. I just regret that I couldn’t be with you longer and I regret that I cannot raise my children. As my status is, it might be safer for me to be dead.”

 

“Don’t say that, Robin,” Chrom said, his voice edged with frustration and sadness.  

 

“If you haven’t already,” Robin added, “I think you might want to seal up my body in a vault somewhere and put some magical protections on it.  Ashes, too, if you did that to me.”

 

Chrom raised an eyebrow.  He did not breathe a word of what had recently happened to Robin’s grave and wondered why this would suddenly be brought up.  “How come?” 

 

“I was bred to be a perfect vessel,” the dead man answered, “That means that all that careful breeding is in all parts of me, blood, skin, bones… It’s why I had such an easy magical aptitude.  I believe that to awaken in full power, Grima would have needed my soul to devour, but that my body or remains alone might provide a way for him to awaken with less power, but to still resurrect. Whatever is left of me should be sealed.”

 

“Robin…” Chrom began.  His late friend ignored him to turn to his wife.

 

“Panne… watch our children closely,” he said.  “I don’t think they’re in any real danger of my unfortunate past since they are part-you, but… I’m worried I may have given your race a curse.” 

 

“Robin…. Snowbird… You _saved_ my race.” The rabbit-woman reached out to “stroke” his transparent cheek.  “Thanks to you, I have a warren again. The Taguel will live.” 

 

“I…” Robin began as his form began growing sketcher.  “I feel myself slipping.  I’m tired.  You woke me from sleep and I feel it pulling me back in.”

 

Tharja nodded. “The limits to this spell have been reached, love. I do not know if I will be able to bring you back in the future, but I will try.” 

 

“I don’t care about that,” Robin said in an increasingly dry whisper.  “I want all of you to live and to find happiness. You’ve earned peace. Don’t worry about me.  I lived as well as I could and I’m no longer in pain.” He suddenly switched gears.  “No… not yet… I don’t want to go back to sleep yet! I want to stay just a little bit longer!”  He reached out a spectral hand as his legs and shoulders began to spark off into motes of light, dragged off into the dark smoke from which he’d come.  “Panne! My children!  Chrom! I’m so sorry! I’m so…s..o..r..r..y…F…a…r…e…w…e…l…l…” 

 

The last the Shepherds saw of him were his sad eyes as the sketchy outlines of his form vanished completely and the smoke vortex collapsed upon itself. 

 

“I will pray for him,” Libra said, putting a hand on Chrom’s shoulder. 

 

“Do so, my friend,” the lord answered.  “We need to get him out of there. If it is possible to get him into light…” 

 

Panne hugged her bunnies.  The rest of the Shepherds started arguing about what had just happened: whether it had been real or an illusion, about things that the ghost of Robin had said.  Ricken was comforting a crying Nowi.  Lissa was sniffling.  Frederick said something about how he “just knew it” about Robin’s sinister origins, but that this point, did not care about them because the man had proved himself to even the Wary.  Tharja was exhausted.  Gaius was giving her chocolate.  Kellam felt more like a ghost than the ghost.  Miriel had gotten up and was studying the sigil that had been drawn on the desk. Stahl said something about how lively Robin had seemed for being dead, but the joke fell on irritated ears. 

 

Cordelia brought up the topic that they all seemed to want to forget about.  “Chrom,” she said, “What do you think about what he said about his body?  We didn’t tell him… it’s…”

 

“It’s gone, I know,” Chrom replied.  “And now we know it may have been taken for something truly horrible.  Gods-damn it.” 

 

“Well, what are we going to do?” 

 

“I already have soldiers and spies doing an investigation, no leads yet.  I suppose I didn’t take it seriously enough because even though it’s Robin… it’s not really him.  We have left… our own on the battlefield before when we’ve had to.” 

 

Cordelia gave him a sympathetic look.  “We all know that, all too well.”   

 

“Getting him back has suddenly become important for more than just honor-reasons.”

 

Chrom wandered out to one of the gardens to get some fresh air.  He stood shock-still when he saw a figure framed in moonlight, their blue hair fluttering in the wind. 

 

“Marth?” he asked. 

 

“I think it is time that I fight under my own name from now on,” the woman who had previously presented herself as a man said. 

 

“What are you doing here?  I haven’t seen you since…”

 

“Two years ago,” she said.  “When I tried to change fate for Exalt Emmeryn.  I have been looking for my friends.  I am afraid that time has been flowing back upon its original course – the disaster I came here to prevent.”  

 

“What are you talking about?” 

 

“Father…”

 

“Father?” 

 

The young woman stepped into a better lit area.  “Look into my eyes.”

 

“Hmm?” 

 

“You may find this hard to believe, but I am from the future.  I came here with my friends from a terrible place caused by events that happened in this past.  History has already deviated from itself, but the chain of events leading to disaster is still on course. The future of this world depends upon a changing of fate!” 

 

Chrom recoiled from shock upon seeing the brand in the woman’s eye.  “Lucina?”

 

“Father, I’ve come from the future to prevent the rise of the Fell Dragon, Grima.  You must believe me.” 

 

 

**Forward, march!**


	4. Blood-Greased Clockworks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chrom looked over the field of Risen that the Shepherds were fighting. 
> 
> "They're using strategy now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Notes: I am aware that future!Morgan’s origins are shrouded in mystery and they might not even be from the same timeline / dimension as the other future children, but I’ve decided upon having a Morgan that everyone from Lucina’s world remembers, even if she will not remember them. Likewise, I’ve not played any of the DLC content, (or been lucky enough to get Spotpass-hits) although I am roughly aware of a few of the storylines – from what I gather, the Future Past storyline isn’t even directly related to the Lucina, Morgan etc. that we know, anyway, but if it is, it’s basically being ignored here on grounds of artistic license._

**ARISE**

**Chapter 4: Blood-Greased Clockworks**

 

 

Lucina held herself.  The young woman gently rocked the infant in her arms and smiled. Sumia watched over them.

 

“I’d like to say that this is the strangest experience I’ve ever had,” Lucina said, “though I’m not sure if it’s true.  This is definitely one of the most beautiful moments.”  

 

Before handing the baby to Sumia, she kissed the bundle on the forehead. “I’m going to make sure you have a better life than mine, little one.  I promise.” 

 

“You’re definitely mine,” Sumia said to the teenager, taking the child into her arms with a smirk. “Though I hope you are less gassy.  Her poor tummy’s been a bit upset lately.  I’m just proud that I haven’t tripped with her once.  I’m far less clumsy since becoming a mother.”

 

“You stay a klutz!” Lucina said with a warm smile.  “In my world, I mean… you were always clumsy, but in good way… I guess. You were always careful with my sister and me.”

 

“Sister?”  Chrom exclaimed. 

 

“I have a little sister,” Lucina explained.  “Her name is Cynthia.  She is… energetic.  She is one of those who came back to this timeline with me. I have been searching for her but haven’t been able to find her.”

 

“How many daughters from the future do I have?” Chrom groused. 

 

“Me and Cynthia.  You weren’t able to have any others.”

 

Chrom stared for a moment.  Lucina stared back at him her face as serious as a heart-attack.

 

“That is what I am trying to prevent,” Lucina said.

 

“You need me to make more children?” Chrom asked, confused.

 

“No,” Lucina said sadly.  “You died.” She sat down in a chair heavily at the table lit generously by the morning sunlight streaming through the windows.  This was just one of many meeting rooms – also a breakfast nook, although food was not being served yet. 

 

“You see…” the young woman continued, “the chain of events in my timeline that led to the destruction of Ylisse… and the entire world, in fact -began with the death of Aunt Emmeryn.  I knew her only by stories in my time. Tensions with Plegia led to an all-out war when she was…when she was assassinated.”

 

Chrom nodded solemnly. “The attempt we prevented.” 

 

“Yes.  Gaius and Panne still became Shepherds.  I knew them in my time before the dark days came.  The war with Plegia lasted well beyond what it did in this timeline.  Your tactician got you through it. The stories of his daring strategies were well-known.”

 

“Robin?”

 

“Yes.  I do believe we are talking of the same person – white hair, kind of on the short side, liked roast-bear.” Lucina smiled softly, “Well, Uncle Robin, to me.  He became your advisor after the war and did a lot of babysitting for Cynthia and me, since you were willing to saddle a good friend with a lot. He’d get back at you on occasion – asking you to watch his Taguel-kits. He’d married Panne in my time, too. They’d have you tearing your hair out by the end of the day!” 

 

Chrom sighed, “The Robin that I knew was a good friend.  I regret that I am unable to introduce you in this time and place.  He’s deceased.  He was killed in the last battle of the last war.”

 

“I know.  I was watching your camp, unseen. I felt my guts clench when I was watching you carry him back to camp.  I’m so sorry, Father.”

 

“I’ve been looking to hire another tactician.  In running tests and war-games, no one comes close.  I have given thought to giving a position to Virion, but he went back to Rosanne. I am hesitant to enlist him to such a position only because I know him to be a man much more comfortable with sacrifice than Robin was.  There have been rumors about hostilities mounting in Valm. The last thing I need is for Ylisse to end up embroiled in another war without good strategists.  I fear that I may not be up to the task alone if things get out of hand.”

 

“Perhaps this might help.” 

 

Sumia gently rocked the baby-Lucina out of a fuss and retreated to another room to breastfeed her while Lucina pulled something out of a pocket and slid it over the table to Chrom.  It was a compact little book, designed to be carried upon one’s belt.

 

“The Rules of Robin?” Chrom asked, scratching his head looking at the lettering and the image of a small bird perched upon a spear-shaft in gold on the blue cover.   

 

“The Robin of my world wrote it.  It’s world-famous.  It is a war-book, strategies and tactics.  It is widely-read, not just by people interested in the military, but by merchants who try to apply some of the content in peaceful, civilian ways to their businesses… it’s even read by pacifists because of a couple of chapters on non-violent resolution.  It’s interspersed with little stories about the Shepherds, too.  Robin had an idiosyncratic way of writing.”

 

“Hmmm,” Chrom said, giving it a casual flip-through.

 

“It should be further proof of the time I come from,” Lucina said.  “Time has already deviated a great deal.  I do not know how much my presence has affected this timeline.  However, time is like a river.  It always tries to run to its original course. I have been seeing signs, already, that time is trying to correct the course.  I must prevent the tragedy that happened in my future from happening here!”

 

“You said I died?”  Chrom inquired.

 

“Yes,” Lucina said dourly. “Ylisse was eventually embroiled with in a conflict with Valm, along with our allies in Regna Ferox.  Everything culminated in a secondary conflict with Plegia. The Fire Emblem was taken and you were betrayed and murdered by someone close to you. A Plegian extremist-cult managed to revive the Fell Dragon, Grima.  What was left of the army fought but the Shepherds… our parents, uncles, aunts and friends… all of them dead.  My friends – everyone’s children and Aunt Lissa fled to whatever refuge we could, fighting and surviving for as long as possible.  We came here through divine-intervention.  Naga had mercy upon us and sent us here to save the future by changing the past.”

 

“Heavy,” was all Chrom had to say. 

 

“I’ll keep you safe!” Lucina exclaimed. 

 

Chrom put his chin in his palm, an elbow resting on the table.  “I received grave news yesterday regarding the Fell Dragon and a close friend of mine,” he said.  “Tharja, our dark mage worked a spell that brought Robin’s spirit back to us for a short time.  I do not think that he was merely an illusion.  He spoke of regaining lost memories as he died.  He spoke of being born to be the vessel of Grima.”

 

“Naga would not have sent us here to change the past if this world were not headed toward destruction,” Lucina said.

 

“I do not think that my friend is capable of betraying me now, if he ever was.  He did warn us about the possible properties of his body, however, and… something decidedly cruel has happened to it.”

 

Lucina looked up. 

 

“The gravesite was vandalized recently.  The casket was dug up and stolen.  Now that we know that he was bred and born to be a vessel, I fear what might be happening to it.”

 

“Then we must find Uncle Robin’s body expediently and at all costs!” Lucina yelped, standing up.  The chair gave a little squeak behind her. 

 

Frederick and an assistant came in carrying covered silver trays with breakfast for the royal family and their guest.  Sumia re-entered with baby-Lucy, fed, burped and sleeping.  Frederick raised an eyebrow at Lucina, even though he knew that Lord Chrom was holding a private audience with “Marth.” 

 

“Tell the local Shepherds to assemble, to get fed and to get geared up,” Chrom ordered. “We have a mission.”

 

“Yes, M’lord,” the great knight in butler’s attire answered. 

 

Lucina’s eyes practically sparkled as she beheld her breakfast.  “Is this… real ham?” she asked, “and eggs from chickens?  Oh, and toast with honey? And real fruit juice...not muddy water?” 

 

“My, you look like you just found a buried treasure!” Sumia giggled.

 

Lucina cut a bite of ham and savored it.  “I have not had such luxuries in a long time. In my time, we survived on whatever we could… sometimes I didn’t eat anything for days. Even being in this world for two years, I’ve had to keep things to a minimum, as I’ve wanted to stay hidden.” 

 

“Enjoy, then,” Chrom encouraged. “Don’t eat too fast, now.” 

 

“If the Shepherds can help me find my friends,” Lucina said between mouthfuls, “They would all be a great help.  We are a group with many skills.  My little sister is a Pegasus-knight.  One of us is a wyvern-rider. We have sword-wielders, a heavy-armor knight, a skilled archer, a brilliant mage, an intimidating priest, a Manakete, a Taguel… and the one we may hope to find first is our gifted tactician.” 

 

“So, you have one,” Chrom said, finishing a bite of scrambled eggs.

 

“Yes.  She would be quite a boon to Ylisse,” Lucina continued.  “She’s also a Taguel-halfling, but in my time, she studied tactics under the best.”

 

“Morgan?” Chrom yelped, dropping his fork.  “I mean… she’s just a tiny child…”

 

“MY time’s Morgan,” Lucina insisted.  “She is Robin’s daughter. She never believed herself to be as good at on-the-fly strategy as her missing old man, but trust me, she’s very smart.  She helped us to survive against impossible odds.”

 

     

 

 

 

The Shepherds marched.  Not everyone stationed in Ylisstol was among them.  Panne chose to stay home with her bunnies, putting her trust in Chrom.  She planned to join him in future battles when she felt sufficiently needed, but wished to be with Yarne and Morgan during this crucial time.  Words about her being all they had and there being too many war-orphans in the world were exchanged, as well as the endangered nature of a species.  Chrom had insisted that she stay.    

 

Some that should have stayed behind according to most of the group did not.  Sumia would not let Chrom march alone and so had a wet-nurse take charge of young Lucina. Sully had recently recovered from having her and Kellam’s firstborn and likewise left her in another’s care.  They expected to come back to Ylisstol at intervals.  They also thought that their enemy in this case was not as dangerous as an entire nation, that they were only a bunch of “thugs and crazies” despite Tharja’s warnings about the Grimleal.  At least the senior members were nothing to mess around with.  If they already had the “treasure” in their possession and had not left its finding and retrieval to common hirelings, she’d said, after a fight with them some of the Shepherds would probably not be coming home.

 

For her part, she was ready to turn any member of the cult, lesser or senior, into a fine red mist.  They’d made it so her poor Robin could not even rest in peace anymore.  His body belonged to _her_ – although she would have preferred that it belong to her in a living state.

 

They marched upon a northerly course, choosing to check a location that Lucina had suspicions about in regards to where she thought her friends might be. She’d caught a rumor that the people of one of the villages in that direction had seen a “large rabbit-monster.”  This could mean one of a number of things – one, the village liked interesting legends and stories, two – the future version of Yarne was about, or Morgan, or both, or third – perhaps neither Yarne or Morgan were about, but some other, hidden Taguel - kin of Panne that she did not know had survived. 

 

There were also rumors of gatherings of Risen.  Chrom had decided that any and all nests of them needed to be wiped out. 

 

The Shepherds were crossing a field when he paused suddenly.  There was a distinct odor on the air – a stench of rotten blood and cold meat.  It wasn’t overpowering, but it was peculiar to only one class of creature. 

 

Chrom bade Lucinda to stand by his side.  They kept both versions of Falchion at the ready.  Sure enough, coming out from the trees were undead men riding undead horses. Risen knights lumbered at the edge of the valley.  Chrom could barely make out the hats of Risen mages beyond the wild grass. 

 

One of the things he most wished for as a commander was Robin’s particular “sight.”  The man had something of a supernatural ability to see far ahead, beyond what most people could – certainly beyond Chrom’s range of vision, and he could assess what was ahead at a glance.  It had been one of the things that had made him a tactician without peer. 

 

 _He had the eyes of a dragon_ … Chrom thought ruefully.   

 

However, Chrom had always done fairly well at reading a battlefield, himself.  He did not command a loyal following for nothing.  He gave orders and everyone fell into their positions and advantageous pairs like clockwork.  Most flocks of Risen were not particularly difficult to take care of.  They could be as fierce at fighting as any human soldiers – and some seemed be made strangely stronger by undeath – perhaps because the dead were not supposed to feel pain.  However, they tended to work by a kind of instinct and vague muscle-memory of their former lives as warriors rather than by solid plans.  

 

Ricken took out an archer.  Frederick destroyed a Risen swordsman with his lance.  Others stood their ground, watching the enemy.  The first wave had been typically easy.

 

The second wave hit.  “What in tarnation?” Donnel groused, shuffling with the battleaxe that he’d newly gotten himself trained with.  His eyes as well as those of all the others beheld the Risen warriors getting themselves into groups and coming up over the hills from places they hadn’t seen them stationed at before.  The monsters came up behind, closing the Shepherds in and steadily closing ground. 

 

Some of the dead were seen to be working _in pairs._  

 

Chrom looked to Lucina.

 

“I haven’t seen them do anything like this before!” she yelped.      

 

“Form a circle!” Chrom commanded.  “Shields and armor on the outside! Healers on the inside!  That means you, Lissa! In the center, now!”

 

“What’s going on?” Lissa quailed. 

 

“Stay with me, child,” Libra said, putting one hand on her shoulder and the other on his axe. 

 

“They seem to be smarter than I’ve ever known them!” Lucina observed.  “They’re… actually organized.  They’ve always had commanders but this is…”

 

“Strategy,” Chrom finished.  “They’re trying to hem us in with a pincer-move.” 

 

He cut down an axe-wielder before it could cut his future-daughter in half.  He caught a glimpse over the rise of the land of one standing apart from the others.  He thought it was likely the commander. 

 

“Lucina, take care of them!” the prince said as he bolted out over the field.

 

“Father!” Lucina yelled after him.  He was leaving himself wide open. 

 

As Chrom got to the edge of the field, he got a better look at the commanding Risen.  He was moving his hands as if conducting some kind of a spell.  It was either a form of sign-signaling or possibly a communications hex the creature had with the other Risen. 

 

Chrom stood shocked-still for a moment.  This particular Risen wore a familiar coat.  He knew that it couldn’t be his friend’s actual coat, as that belonged to Panne now, but it was a model just like it. The lord of Ylisse ventured closer.  White hair, messy and wispy covered the monster’s head.  The skin was drawn and tight as if it had been dried out, partially mummified and newly enlivened. It was, though it was skin, as pale as cleaned bones.  The eyes were dull and dead, milk-filmed, yet they looked right at him. 

 

The soulless eyes glared at him. A red glow appeared in them.    

 

“Robin?” 

 

The Risen commander in the long coat responded by throwing a high-level fire-spell at him.  Chrom dodged.  That which he was sure once belonged to Robin ran off into the woods.  He was about to give chase, but paused when he heard a horrible commotion. 

 

It was a combination of screams he’d heard.  There was the unmistakable sound of surprise and agony. There were shouts for the clerics. There was a scream of grief.  There was one scream of pure, unfiltered rage peppered with creative profanity – Sully. 

 

“He was protecting me,” Miriel said. 

 

The Risen were vanquished or had retreated.  However, upon the ground lay one knight among his shattered armor. 

 

“You actually see me?” Kellam asked, struggling to talk and to breathe with an axe-wound gracing his chest. 

 

Sully tossed aside her spear covered in rotted blood to kneel down beside him and to hold his hand.  “I’m here, little man,” she said.

 

All of the Shepherds were gathered over him and looking at him.  He was smiling.  Chrom jogged up to the scene.  He found that smile unnerving. 

 

“I guess,” he said through bloody coughs, “I guess this is what it takes for me to be noticed.” 

 

“I can’t do it!” Lissa cried.  “I can’t get the bleeding to stop!”  The gem on her mending staff shattered.  She started pulling bandages out of a bag from the convoy.  Libra shook his head, his staff likewise ruined. 

 

“I got the dastard that did this to you,” Sully assured, “Right in his damned head!”

 

Kellam coughed some more.  “Take… take care of Kjelle…”

 

“What are you talking about you idiot?” Sully scolded.  “You’re going to get through this.  Right Chrom? He’s going to pull through.” 

 

“Focus, Kellam,” Chrom said, “I know it hurts, but Lissa’s helping you.  Just stay still.” 

 

“Focus…” Kellam said blearily.  He looked up at all of the faces staring at him – all on him. He smiled gently through the blood upon his lips.  He was present… among the Shepherds.  He shifted focus to his crimson iron-lady wife.  It wasn’t just her that took notice of him this day.  His friends were here and his friends cared.

 

He wanted to stay alive for them. 

 

He could no longer force himself to breathe. 

 

“Maybe,” he managed to whisper out, “I guess I did matter, after all.” 

 

“No, you son of a griffon!” Sully shouted.  “You can’t be a gods-damned ghost yet! You’ve been one all your life!  Stay with me! Dammit, you aren’t allowed to die, you asshole!”

 

Lissa sniffled and cried; her hands bloody from soaked through bandages.  Libra shook his head. 

 

Sully growled in frustration.  She got back on her horse and rode off with her killer lance, in pursuit of fleeing Risen. 

 

“Should she?” Lucina asked. 

 

“Let her go,” Chrom said, putting a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. 

 

He looked off toward the woods himself.  He felt as though his heart sank into his belly. The game had now changed. 

 

It seemed that the Risen had a tactician now.   
  
___________________________________________________________

 

**_Forward, march!_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I’ve had an interesting realization of having done stories like this before – this kind of theme. I’m new to Fire Emblem, but a few of my darker Legend of Zelda horror-dramas have featured Ganondorf trying to possess a fallen Link in one story, in another, the Hero’s Shade coaches the Twilight-hero in vanquishing a very particular magic-imbued Stalfos…_


	5. The Flow of Time is Always Cruel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bonds of family are being tied again, although some bonds were severed forever before one unlucky child could even arrive. The flow of time runs its course, toward endings, beginnings and strange mixtures of the two. 
> 
> A young Taguel girl is found in the Ruins of Time. There is no one for her to trust. When Lucina presents her with the book her father wrote, Morgan's one demand is to know where her father is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back and edited previous chapters. “Tharja” is now spelled correctly and some of the sentence structures have been improved. Acknowledgements are in the notes of the first chapter.

**ARISE**

**Chapter 5: The Flow of Time is Always Cruel**

 

 

Lucina sat on a grass-covered hill solemnly watching a wagon with a simple casket as its cargo pulled away.  She shed no tears.  It was not that she did not feel for poor Kellam, it’s just that she had not known him well at all.  Even in her own time, she’d only known him as one of her friends’ fathers who did not survive the first of the dark days. Sully had insisted upon staying with the group rather than joining the wagon back to Ylisstol.  The Crimson Knight had claimed that her fallen husband would want nothing more than for her to make the enemy notice his death by her delivering death to them.   Services had been short and quick in lieu of a greater service to be held eventually back home.

 

The mission continued and everyone felt in the spirit to fight.  Instead of demoralizing them, the death of one of the core group just pissed everyone right off.   

 

The princess turned her head when she noticed footsteps and the heavy sound of someone sitting down beside her. 

 

“Father.” 

 

He held a small book in his hands.  He thumbed through its pages. 

 

“Where did you get this?” he asked.  “I know that you said it was a popular book in your time, but this is a first edition – It’s handwritten and has notes in the margins.  It is definitely Robin’s handwriting.” 

 

“Yes,” Lucina explained.  “It’s the original master-copy.  It belongs to Morgan – the Morgan of my time.  She is going to be furious with me when we find her. I borrowed it from her and forgot that I had it on my person when I made the jump through time. It is very precious to her.” 

 

“Hmmm… some of these notes are in different handwriting.  Morgan’s, I presume?”

 

“Yes.” 

 

“None of us, really,” Lucina began, “have much in the ways of memories of a normal or safe life.  Morgan was a precocious little genius and learned much from her father before he disappeared, even though she was small when he’d left us.  Yarne stuck closer to his mother – they’re actually different ages, you know, in my time.  They were not born as twins as they were here. Cousin Owain was lucky, I guess – Aunt Lissa was the last survivor of the original Shepherds and so he had her. Everyone else just had thoughts of the days when we were warm as we huddled together in the cold.” 

 

“Do you have any happy memories, Lucina?” Chrom asked; concern in his eyes.  He had not seen much in the way of smiling from the young woman at all – she had given her infant-self a few genuine smiles and she seemed to be impressed by the food everyone ate – even the camp cuisine, but Chrom worried much about the future-version of his daughter because she seemed to be sad all the time – just stuck an a default state of seriousness and depression. 

 

She was worse than him.

 

“I do,” she said with a small nod.  “I remember playing with Owain as a child, and with the Taguels.  Sometimes Auntie Panne would turn into her beast-form and let us ride on her back – Don’t tell her this, though!”

 

Chrom laughed. “I won’t.  I don’t want my head kicked off by rabbit-claws.” 

 

“She’d… do things for kids that she’d never do for adults,” Lucina added.  “Owain and Cynthia liked playing hero – until they actually had to do the job – but they still approach things like people obsessed with stories.  I trained with you a lot.  You taught me how to use a sword early. I liked it…and you told me that I had talent for it.  I really wanted to be like you – to protect the people, like you did.” 

 

Chrom gave her a warm smile.  “How early?” 

 

“I remember starting with a wooden sword at age four.”

 

“You must have begged me.  That’s young to begin a responsibility.” 

 

“Oh, but I liked it!” Lucina insisted,” and I did beg!  I watched you all the time. I’m better at not breaking things, though! But…Falchion… You wouldn’t let me touch Falchion at all – not until I was, in your eyes, the right age.”

 

“That sounds right,” Chrom answered. 

 

“I,” Lucina began, taking a hitch in her breath, “I took it up…”  Another hitch.  “After it came home and you did not.” 

 

“Lucy…” 

 

“We all had little things… Most of us only had the wedding rings our mothers had worn. My friends would take them out sometimes and roll them around in their palms.  It was like a reminder that the first Shepherds – their parents – had even existed.”

 

A stately pair of tears rolled down Lucina’s cheeks.  “One of us, Inigo, had a dance he’d do all of the time, trying to find the final steps that his mother never taught him.  Laurent had his mother’s book of scientific findings and theories.  Morgan… tried to live the legend of her father.  All she had were her early memories and the ‘Rules of Robin’ that you hold in your hand that she would read over and over again.  She once told me that some of a person’s soul was left in anything they created and since her father had written that, she was connecting with his soul whenever she read it.  As for me…” 

 

Chrom felt his heart breaking. He wanted to wipe away her tears, but did not know how to best approach her.

 

“Whenever I drew Falchion…” Lucina sighed, “I felt… your ‘weight.’  I thought of you and I felt you.  It was like having a part of you with me – as well as a part of all of our ancestors who’d ever held it.  That alone made me… less afraid.” 

 

Chrom suddenly reached over and hugged her.  “It’s my fault…” 

 

“What are you saying, Father?  Of course it isn’t!  None of it was!” 

 

“You deserved more from me than a sword and a world of troubles.” 

 

“Father!” 

 

Lucina wept in earnest.  Chrom cradled her head on his shoulder and gently rubbed her back.  “It’s okay,” he said.  “I’m here.  I’m here now.” 

 

Lissa came running up the hill.  “Big brother!” she called, “It’s time to move out!  Oh…” 

 

The young cleric chose to leave them be until they were ready, on their own, to move.   

 

 

 

 

The main mission had been to chase down the last group of Risen that they’d encountered because Chrom claimed to have seen the corpse of Robin among them.  Tracking proved fruitless.  That is not to say that they did not encounter the undead.  The Shepherds found a different squadron of the monsters in the ruins of a holy site.  Not only did they feel compelled to wipe them out, but they were sure they’d heard the shouting of a perfectly living human, screaming and calling to someone for help. 

 

Between ancient floors and an abyss, the Ruins of Time were difficult to navigate.  Fliers tried to take care of Risen fliers and to lure the others to the edges of the crumbled pillars. Those on foot marched together and kept each other close.  As the fore-team of Shepherds got closer to their target – a person who was crying out to the heavens with the plea of “Father, help me!” – Lucina’s eyes widened. 

 

“What is it?” Chrom asked. 

 

He paused when he saw the distant figure transform into a large animal.  The beast bounced around between a pair of Risen axe-wielders, trying to use some kind of distraction tactic before jumping behind one of them and kicking its head clean off with its hind-feet. 

 

“It’s her!” Lucina said, jubilant.  “That’s Morgan!” 

 

She took off running toward the giant rabbit.  Chrom came running up beside her. 

 

“Morgan!” Lucina cried out, waving her free hand.  “Morgan!  It’s me, Lucina!”

 

The were-rabbit cleanly dispatched the other Risen that was near her.  She wheeled around and sent her flailing feet straight for Lucina’s chest.  Chrom pulled the princess back and held up Falchion’s flat side to block the blow.  The claws glanced off it effortlessly, uninjured and leaving not a scratch upon the divine sword. 

 

“Calm down!” Chrom barked.  “We are here to help you!”

 

The huge rabbit sat on her haunches, guarding her chest with her front paws.  She sniffed and cocked her head. 

 

Lucina stood, trying to calm her own racing heart.  “Morgan… don’t you recognize me?  I’m your friend, remember?  I’m not a Risen.  I found the people we were supposed to find!  This is your Uncle Chrom.  He’s not as old here.” 

 

Lucina was smiling breathlessly.  The rabbit bowed her head as if sizing them both up. Fragmented magic swirled about her, leaving a pretty young brunette woman in pink flexible armor and fur-covered legs.  The girl looked just as confused in human form as she did in beast-form. 

 

“Who are you?” she asked. 

 

“Lu-” Lucina began.

 

“I don’t recognize any of you.  You don’t want to hurt me?” 

 

“No, we’re here to help,” Chrom assured.  “We’re the Shepherds. It’s what we do.” 

 

“Morgan!” Lucina yelped again.  “Are you alright?  Remember?  We came here together… us and the Second Shepherds.  We wanted to fight the future by changing the past.  Naga sent us through a gateway.” 

 

Morgan stepped back.  “How-how do you know my name?” she asked.  “All I know is that I woke up here maybe about an hour ago and there are things trying to kill me.”

 

“Come with us and we’ll have our clerics look after you,” Chrom said.  “I am… actually kind of familiar with your type of situation.  You may have bumped your head.” 

 

“I don’t think so,” Morgan said, shaking her head.  “All I know right now is that I was searching for my father.  He’s the only person I have any recollection of at the moment.  Can you help me find him?  He has white hair and wears a big coat with eyes on the sleeves.  He’s a magician and a tactician and he goes by the name of R-” 

 

“Robin,” Lucina finished for her. 

 

Morgan’s eyes widened.  “You do know him?  Take me to him right away! He’ll sort this out! He’s a genius and can figure out everything!” 

 

“I am afraid that we cannot take you to him,” Chrom said sadly, “But we can protect you in his name and we can try to get things sorted out when you’re safe.  We can take you to your mother.”

 

“Mother?” Morgan questioned, just looking confused again.  “I don’t…r- I don’t know who my mother is… I don’t know if I can trust you… maybe you should just leave me here.” 

 

Lucina took the Rules of Robin from her pocket.  “Maybe this will tell you that you can trust us?”

 

Morgan snatched up the book.  She flipped through it madly.  “Where did you get this?” she demanded, her face streaked with angry tears.  “This is Father’s book!  What have you done with him?”  She slipped the little guide into her belt and withdrew a Beaststone. She did not activate it, but prepared herself to. 

 

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY FATHER?” the young half-Taguel demanded. 

 

“We have done nothing to him!” Lucina said, holding her Parallel Falchion up like a shield against rabbit-wrath.    “He… left me that book,” she partially-lied.  “He gave it to you, but you lost it and I found it and… it shows a bond of trust between us.  Please, just trust us. There is something very important that we must do for your father.  We can explain later, but we need you.  Trust me, Morgan, I am your friend.” 

 

“Alright,” she said, relenting.  “We need to get out from under these Risen.”  Morgan glanced around.  “Who are they?” she asked, motioning to the other living fighters on the other side of a chasm.   

 

“The Shepherds,” Chrom answered, stabbing an approaching swords-Risen in its already stilled-heart.  “My army.”

 

“It’s pretty small,” the Taguel observed. 

 

“It’s a core-group,” the lord explained. 

 

“They’re fighting well.  The tactics I see are familiar; still, I think you need some direction.” 

 

Before Chrom could get offended at this upstart who had been ready to gut them a few minutes ago taking over trying to order his troops, Lucina braced her sword in front of herself and said “Just tell me where to go.  I trust you, Morgan.” 

 

Morgan smiled.  As she directed Lucina off to fight a distant enemy, she pointed at Chrom. “You go with her. You’ll both be less likely to die that way.”  

 

Chrom nodded.  “Stay by me, kid,” he said.  “I’ll protect you.” 

 

“That sounds advantageous,” Morgan said as she joined him, palming her smooth, round weapon.

 

 

 

 

 

“Amnesia seems like an obnoxious thing to have as a running family-trait,” Chrom said as the Shepherds returned to Ylisstol. 

 

“I don’t know,” Morgan said, shrugging her shoulders.  “What I can’t remember can’t bother me.  It never seemed to bother Dad and he couldn’t remember most things about his life from before being around age-twenty. Ooh! Is that what I think it is?” 

 

Chrom and other weary members of his party had entered an open-room, the kind for greeting guests.  Morgan, already, seemed to be impressed by all of the colorful tapestries and carpeting and the fine furniture.  Some of the staff that had stayed behind, however, had set up a strategy-table.  Whether it had been set up for a game or it had been created to analyze one of the army’s past battles, Chrom didn’t bother to ascertain. It has been set up with a clear line of attack and “enemy” pieces.   

 

Morgan was drawn to it in the same manner as a rodent in a cage is drawn to a running-wheel.  No one knows why the instinct is there – it just is – such mechanisms being nonexistent in nature, yet the animal absolutely knows what to do with it.  With the young tactician’s daughter, her attraction had been learned, but was no less primal.  She immediately started re-arranging the different types and colors of little carved soldiers on the board saying things like “No, un-uh, wrong!” and “That’s a good way to get your archers killed,” and other mutterings. 

 

Chrom moseyed over to the board.  Cordelia and Maribelle were already looking it over as Morgan’s hands flashed over it. 

 

“I assume that is me in the back having tea instead of in the thick of things? Maribelle asked, pointing to a piece. 

 

“Reserve-healer,” Morgan answered.  “I don’t like units that cannot attack in the thick of things unless they can be reliably protected.  I assume that you are a Troubadour, like the piece?”

 

“Yes,” Maribelle answered, “A very refined one.”  She turned to Chrom, having not been in the battle by which the Shepherds had gained Morgan.  “Where did you find this… rough creature?”

 

Morgan was too busy finagling around with the board to notice the insult.  

 

“Pay attention, sweet Maribelle.  This new addition might just save us all.” 

 

“There!” Morgan said, finally satisfied. 

 

“Looks like a sound setup!” Cordelia praised.  “But, dear, I don’t think the people who were last using the board were actually using it seriously.” 

 

The young girl sighed.  “It’s alright.  I like doing this kind of stuff.  It’s my dream to become a great tactician.” 

 

“You look like you’re on your way to it,” Cordelia said with a smile.  “Where did you learn this?”

 

“My father!” Morgan chimed proudly. 

 

“Oh, I do wish we still had our master-tactician around for you to train with, if you’re going to be a Shepherd,” Maribelle said.  What is it, Chrom? Why are you telling me to sush? Sir Robin would have been more than happy to train this delightful girl.” 

 

“Sir Robin?” Morgan asked, eyes lighting up.  “That’s my father’s name! Is he here?  I must see him at once!”

 

“I can explain,” Chrom said to the Troubadour and Pegasus Knight’s confused looks. “I can’t explain _well_ , but I can explain.”   

 

That was when Panne walked in, Lucina by her side.  Her ears lifted slightly and her eyes widened when she saw the human-looking girl with the Taguel tail.  The older Taguel immediately grabbed Morgan’s chin, stroked her cheek and started sniffing her.  Morgan shrugged her off and recoiled.    
  
”What are you doing?” the girl yelped. 

 

“I don’t know how…” Panne breathed, “But you’re mine. I’d know the scent of my children anywhere!” 

 

“Easy, Panne,” Lucina cautioned.  “As I said, she doesn’t know any of us right now.” 

 

“Mama?” a small child squeaked, coming up by Panne’s legs – her little daughter, the Morgan native to this world.  “Who ‘dat?”

 

The older Morgan peered down at the tiny girl. 

 

She promptly fainted. 

 

Healers were called.  Panne hovered by the stranger who was her daughter.  There was much to discuss with the poor girl when she was ready. 

 

 

 

 

“I told you for the last time GO AWAY!” 

 

Morgan cuddled up on a bed, blankets wrapped around her like a little fort.  She’d been crying bitterly and just wanted life, the world, the universe and everything to leave her alone.  She’d done some tricks to the locks on the doors.  She had yet to become a magical adept but she knew a little bit, enough to use simple fire-tome spells to melt and warp things.  She’d locked herself inside the bedroom of Panne’s apartment-area and would not come out. 

 

She knew the knocking was Lucina, trying to coax her out again.  So far, negotiations had failed.  She glared up at a particular drawing on the wall and stuffed her face into a comforter to have another rage-cry. 

 

“I’m going to be coming in now, okay?” Lucina said in a gentle voice.

 

“Fat chance!” Morgan called back. 

 

Her sensitive ears caught the sound of a complicated lock-picking.  The door swung open and there was Lucina, next to a ginger-haired young man. 

 

“What do I owe you?” Lucina said to the stranger.

 

“Oh, I’d say this is worth a chocolate bar – the big kind, not the ‘fun sized,’ and the next time your mother bakes apple fritters, I’m the first to know.”

 

“Thank you, Gaius.” 

 

The man left and Lucina shut the door behind her.  She carried a bundle of fabric in one arm.  “Morgan…”

 

Morgan burrowed deeper into the blankets.  “Why can’t you leave me in peace?” the young Taguel asked.   Glowing red eyes peered from beneath a dark cavern of embroidered cotton.  “Haven’t I had enough?”

 

“Yes, you have… but we cannot hide from the truth.” 

 

“First, I wake up surrounded by hungry zombies, then I get swept away by a bunch of weird strangers, then…” Morgan’s voice began to break, “I… I see this toddler version of myself… and through it all, I just wanted to find my father and everyone tells me that he’s dead – DEAD!”

 

She slowly worked her tear-streaked face out from under the blankets.  Lucina sat on the bed next to her and put a hand on her shoulder.  “I understand your pain,” she said, “More than you know.’ 

 

“I don’t know who or what I am anymore and…Father… Father..!” 

 

“We are here for you, Morgan.  I know you don’t remember me, but I am your friend and I care a lot about you.”

 

Morgan sniffed.  “I just want to curl up and forget everything all over again.” 

 

Lucina proffered the bolt of fabric in her arms.  “Here.  Panne – your mother, said that this might help.  She says that it helps her when she wears it. She also thinks you should have it.” 

 

Morgan took the cloth and unfolded it.  She raised her eyebrows. “This is…”

 

“Go ahead and put it on,” Lucina encouraged gently. 

 

Morgan slipped the long coat over herself.  The hood shadowed her eyes. Her nose twitched like a rabbit’s, although she was in human form.  “It’s a little big on me,” she said. 

 

“It belonged to this time’s version of your father.  We thought it might be a nice way of being close to him.” 

 

Morgan nestled herself into it and seemed to calm.  She was awash in fragrances – the kind that a creature with an adept nose could pick up that those with less keen senses might not be able to fully appreciate. The coat carried magic-smells – the crackling, heated copper scent of thunder spells, the smoky campfire aroma of fire tomes, the cut-grass smell of wind-magic.  It also carried a subtle musk of human male sweat – not a stench, but a bouquet a Taguel could pick up even on someone who bathed regularly.  There was the smell of the kind of soap that Morgan’s father used to wash his hair with as well as the sharp, sweet-spicy scent of his aftershave.     

 

“It smells like home,” Morgan said happily.  She put down the hood and looked at Lucina. “But I’m not home anymore.” 

 

“No, we are not home,” Lucina said though as sad smile.  “You and I can never go home again, but we can make things right.” 

 

Morgan pinned the front top buttons of the coat over her chest and nodded.  “It’s what Father would want, right?” she asked.  “We can make things right.”  She smiled, her eyes still glistening with tears.  “I’ll do my best.” 

 

 

 

**_Forward, march!_ **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who haven’t played the game that way and are curious. - Indeed a Morgan who is the offspring of Robin / Male Avatar marrying Panne is a Taguel. She is a half-Taguel – furry-bottomed with a little bunny tail and a human upper half / normal ears. At least, that’s what I remember her looking like before I re-classed her to a Tactician so I could free up my male avatar to go ride a griffon for a while and still have a sword-sorcerer on the field. Meeting her in the Ruins of Time, she fought by turning into a big bunny and kicking things, just like her mama. 
> 
> If you are reading this fresh to the sites: A Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukah, Kick-Ass Kwanza, Wonderful Yule, Sensational Solstice, Fabulous Festivus and/or whatever else you might celebrate or desperately try to ignore to you! And for those of you who work retail – I wish you a swift and speedy recovery from your days as tributes in the arena.


	6. A Lamb Among the Shepherds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grima can feel the body rotting all around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning for my readers: Some very graphic descriptions lie immediately ahead in this chapter. Please do not be eating when you read this – not even if you’re a steel-hearted   
> fan of my horror work in other fandoms and know that I’m pretty damn serious about that tag. If no previous chapter did it for you – this is the one where the story earns its “darkfic” status. 
> 
> Class Change from “T” to “M” on Ao3, with tag-explanation for this reason. I do not know yet whether I should change from “T” to “M” on fanfiction . net since the M-class there tends to denote sexual situations more than horror. Occasionally, I do class it for horror. Let me know, readers, if you think this warrants the warning.

**ARISE**

**Chapter 6: A Lamb Among the Shepherds**

**Some weeks past:**

The cartwheels creaked as the buckboard was drawn into the cavernous chamber.  The hooves of a pair of sleek dark mules made echoing sounds upon the stone-brick floor, their shoes catching the occasional jagged impurity and sending up small sparks.  The animals shuddered as they came to a rest, lines of blood congealing in their close-clipped body-hair.  Their driver had been quite cruel to them, whipping them mercilessly most of the way, valuing haste above all else.  Then again, that was because the cargo he and his comrades were in charge of came with a penalty of probable execution – should they be caught by those they’d stolen it from or tardy in delivery. 

 

Lord Validar gave the order for the cargo to be lifted and placed before the sacred altar. His second, Aversa, issued threats to several cloaked men as they lifted the box by poles and rested it upon the floor.  The wood of the casket had kept a surprising amount of polish for having been buried deep in hard-packed dirt. Validar growled when he saw the royal symbol of Ylisse engraved in the lid.  He’d been told that it had not appeared on the outer tombstone, but apparently, it did not keep that lot from burying a Plegian with it in some manner.  What was worse were the words inscribed – words of love, friendship and farewell. 

 

“As if they meant anything at all…” the sorcerer-king hissed.   “Damn that Gangrel, for taking him before he could give himself freely!  Such a stupid man.”

 

“Ignorant,” Aversa corrected.  “You do remember that he did not know all of our ambitions.  In fact, your son had just been found before the fateful battle; and that by chance.”

 

Validar paced.  “I do not even know if this is going to work!  It took two years to find the burial-plot and to secure the prize.  If Grima can make use of him at all, he’ll not be at full power.  Our hierophant tells us that a soul is required bring a god back in his glory.”

 

“A dead vessel is better than none at all.  Let’s see how my ‘dear little brother’ is faring, shall we?” 

 

The assistants wrapped what they could of their cloaks around their lower faces as they braced tools beneath the coffin-lid, preparing for the inevitable stench.  There was surprisingly little as the lid rattled off and slid to the floor.  Validar looked inside, his eyes showing, for just a moment, a little pang of humanity, so Aversa thought.  

 

The body within was well-preserved considering how long it had been dead. A combination of a sealed casket, cold earth and whatever embalming methods or decay-protection-spells the corpse had been subjected to had kept it intact. Robin’s skin was pale and slightly dried out.  The skin of his lips had pulled back from his teeth, giving him a macabre grimace.  The hair was bushy and flaking. His middle was sunken in, as though anything within the body that would have bloated up had already done so and ruptured and settled back.  His mummified right hand was still clutching a tome of high-level electrical magic, something that had been placed with the man as a token. Aversa pried it from him. 

 

“Completely unused,” she hummed, thumbing through its pages.  “It’s mine now.”

 

She noticed the hand’s well-trimmed nails.  Of course, that wasn’t the most noticeable thing about it.  Being that Robin’s coat was missing, he had not been given the gloves he’d been seen wearing with it, a part of the ensemble.  The Brand of Grima remained, two rows of stark purple stylized eyes on dry skin stretched over bones. 

 

Validar, to Aversa’s surprise, reached down into the coffin and tenderly stroked the corpse’s hair.  She thought she even saw a sad smile.  “He’s home,” the king said.  “My son has finally come home.” 

 

Even in this state, Validar could see that Robin was perfection.  He found it interesting that he was even thinking in terms of a name now. _Robin – my offspring, Robin_. He originally had just wanted to issue him a number and had referred to him as “the child.”  It was the vessel’s mother that had instead upon a name. She had loved birds and chose an ornithological name to signify an attachment to the baby she was never meant to develop.

 

It was said by the bards that a person gave a weapon a soul once they had named it…    

 

Robin’s mother had been nothing more than a brood-mare and Validar, himself, a sire – all for the will of Grima.  The only purpose of the offspring was to be a sacrifice – a lamb without blemish for the altar.  The glory of their people would return and the world’s fate of beautiful oblivion – the glorious void - would be realized.  Few besides Grima’s chosen were capable of realizing the strength and the beauty in death.  The boy was to give himself as an offering and was to come back stronger and more glorious than he could have ever imagined. 

 

Validar had applied himself to becoming no less than the father of a god. That had been ruined when the weak-hearted female he’d lain with had decided to give the child a name and a soul and later to abscond with him to parts unknown.  She was a clever girl.  The child had been, too, during those early days.  It was one of the traits the Grimleal had looked for.  The draconic bloodline was one of intelligence.  To learn that Robin had become a tactician in his adult life had come as no surprise.  He would have been that or a scholar, a bard or a mage of the sciences.   Yes…. The puzzle-tests and observance of his awareness… Intelligence had shown up early in the child as well as the physical earmarks. 

 

Validar continued stroking Robin’s hair.  White was a favored color, but not necessary. He could have been of any color. Subtle aspects of the facial structure and the frame were noted, just as a farmer who bred livestock would notice traits of the snout and the legs and the hindquarters of an animal.  Certain things that would have been seen as genetic defects by outsiders were considered favorable traits to denote the Chosen One.  The child had been mildly anemic, for instance – a problem with “thin blood.”  He had also been susceptible to upper respiratory infections and had a tendency toward insomnia.  Validar did not know if these had persisted in Robin during his adulthood, but guessed that they probably had.  He was much like a dog of high-breeding: A beast with a careful linage, chosen through the generations, the bloodline occasionally tweaked with in-breeding, recorded in papers, with all of the best beauty of the type – yet with problems created by the type. 

 

The health-problems were favored precisely because they would “encourage” the soul to relinquish the body and to be digested into Grima’s heart.  There would be perfect strength in Grima.  There would be perfect health in Grima.  No one, not even a destined vessel, was going to come to Grima without pain. 

 

Validar ordered the body to be lifted out of the coffin and placed upon the Dragon’s Table while he prepared a ritual.  When the assistants lifted the corpse – which apparently had been losing its rigor to go soft again, as was the way of decay, a stench hit the room so hard that even those members of the ritual-guard that had been standing along the walls well away from the altar gagged, coughed and put up their sleeves to guard their noses and mouths.   While the corpse of the late Robin Shepherd had been drying out on the top, his back and the interior of the cushioned coffin was awash in a drippy, black-brown ichor.  There were no insects or larvae, for the coffin had been sealed well, but bacteria had been having their natural way with what had been Robin’s vessel. 

 

“It’ll be over soon, my child” Validar assured the body as it was laid, slick mess and all, upon the Table. 

 

The ritual was prepared and Validar’s hierophant quietly entered the room to supervise it.  He smiled from beneath his hood.  The choking odor of death did not seem to faze him in the least.  Thick dark smoke issued from nowhere to cloak the long-dead lamb upon the altar.  The “rotten mutton” slowly and carefully sat up as the last chant echoed off the ceiling and down to the floor. 

 

“Bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh,” the hierophant commanded, “arise now.” 

 

The corpse stretched with the sounds of popping joints.  Life seemed to come back into it in all ways.  The dry skin on the face and hands plumped up like it was drinking in some source of life to become full flesh again.  With the movements and uprightness, black rivulets dripped from the nose and the eyes.  Nonetheless, the eyelids opened to reveal newly enlivened eyes, fresh with water but looking like milk-glass.  The body raised an arm curiously, slow with muscles reconfiguring and dry sinew stretching and softening anew.  That which was once Robin regarded his marked hand before turning his dripping face to Validar. 

 

“What manner of misery should I repay to you for this insult?” a deep, rumbling voice inquired.  The partially revived body took a moment to roll its freshly re-constituting tongue around in its mouth and to spit up a gout of tobacco-chew colored liquid.  Soon after, “Robin” was wracked with coughing.  He hunched over the edge of the altar and deposited spats of an oil-dark substance upon the chamber floor. 

 

“Lord Grima…”  Validar said with a humble bow. 

 

“Not whole!” the dragon-voice snarled out.  “This vessel is ill!  This vessel is dead!  I can feel the rot of this body all around me!” 

 

“Give it time,” the hierophant said, lowering his hood.  He was the spitting image of Robin when he’d been alive. 

 

The body on the altar gradually took on a greater appearance of life.  It wasn’t entirely alive, however.  It stopped resurrecting at the point at which it held the appearance of a relatively fresh Risen. 

 

“This is an anchor,” the voice of the newly awake Grima said.  “I am bringing forth the flow of the blood… The heart beats slowly.  The brain has rotted… difficult to spark… I can only access connections in part.  This boy was intelligent, but strangely foolish. Such pitiful emotional connections – and to those of Naga, no less!  The strategic connections are useful.  The soul is gone, however… fled long ago.  I cannot access the true soul.  There is no will here, nothing to be given to me! I am weak! I am still half-asleep!” 

 

“Greatest apologies,” Validar said, dipping low.  “The vessel was taken from our care and was killed before he came into our care again.” 

 

“The soul is beyond my reach!” 

 

The hierophant approached Grima.  He dared to touch his face and to look into the filmy eyes. “There is hope in this age,” the mysterious figure said.  “I was carried here upon the winds of time to make certain that we would rise.  We can become as one.” 

 

When the fresh revenant did not answer, the hierophant began subtly changing, shifting form until what stood before him did not look like a living version of himself so much as a female living version of himself.  She had long hair done in tails, strangely sad eyes and a sardonic smile.      

 

“I can be like this for you, if you so wish,” she said.  She trailed her hand down the former Robin’s chest.  “There are interesting ways for the future and the past to become one.” 

 

“It matters not,” the partially-indwelt Grima answered.  “We cannot join and I cannot fully awaken in this state.  The blood is strong but the heart is absent.  Without a soul’s strength, I am but halved!  I cannot manifest fully as I am!”   

 

“And I am not of this time,” the female said.  “I am still subduing the other self, although it had given itself of its own will after enough pain and persuasion.” The future vessel of Grima shifted back into its original male form.   “I need you to become us.” 

 

The former Robin tested his legs.  They shook and Validar helped him to walk.  “So weak!” he growled.  “I need a mortal’s soul to secure the mortal anchor!” 

 

“Did your vessel breed?” the hierophant asked, replacing his hood.  “Mine did. The blood was tainted, but a signature of it was left within the bratlings.  I did not require them and so did not give them much thought when I first came here to find you.” 

 

The Risen-of-Robin paused for a moment and closed his eyes, attempting to access some remnants of what had been recorded within the brain and body as memories and signals.  “Yes,” he said after a long stretch.  “Yes! He did breed.  He chose a half-beast for his fornications.  I do not know if he made progeny from the mating.  If he indeed sired beastlings, they may be of some use.” 

 

“If they are found,” the hierophant began.

 

“Those impure souls may just be what I need to satiate my hunger in the absence of the purebred – enough to join to your life-force and to rise in glory to cleanse this world!” the possessed-Robin finished. 

 

“Our plan is back on track!” the hierophant said with a wicked grin.  “Let us clean you off and get you some refreshment to prepare for what lies ahead.” 

 

Validar laughed.  He clapped his hands twice loudly, letting the sound echo.  “Lamb’s blood!” he commanded.  “Blood to nourish our newly arisen god!” 

 

Somewhere, members of the Grimleal grabbed one of the weaker young dark mages among their own, setting a bowl under her chin and knife to her neck.  The “lamb’s” scream was short and cut-off.

 

 

 

 

**Present day, present time, more or less:**

_“The vultures take the eyes first…”_

 

“Gaha!” 

 

Prince Chrom awoke with a start.  He shot upright in his bed, gasping and panting, his body slicked in sweat.  He felt his wife wrap her arms gently around him.  Sumia rubbed his upper arms and rested her chin against his right shoulder.  He took some comfort in her warmth, her chest pressed against his back, a thin nightgown the only thing between her skin and his.

 

“Ssssh,” she soothed.  “Just a dream.”

 

Chrom caught his breath.  The room was dark, bathed in deep blue from the pale light of the night outside the bedroom windows.  The shadows were long and a clock on a desk ticked gently. 

 

“Another dream about Emm?” Sumia asked. 

 

“Yeah,” Chrom answered dully. 

 

“You’ve been having a lot of those lately.”

 

“I don’t like how they’re getting,” the young man said, shaking his head to try to dislodge the lingering scent of maggots from his mind.  “I don’t know why I’m having so many nightmares.  It’s almost every night.” 

 

“You’ve been under stress. We all have.” 

 

“It’s always Emmeryn,” Chrom sighed.  “This time, she was angry – she wasn’t like herself at all. She was demanding to be buried.”  He shuddered. “I also… I could see some of her bones.” 

 

“Easy, easy,” Sumia coaxed when she heard the barest budding of a sob.  “Maybe… yesterday touched off your brain.  I know mine hasn’t been exactly right.”

 

“Yesterday was Kellam’s full-funeral, yes.  I hope the tomb-marker we had made is noticeable enough. Strange how someone who went unnoticed so much when present can be noticed so much in their absence…” Chrom shook his head again.  “I really should be dreaming about him, but I haven’t.  Not the day he was slain – not now, just nothing.  I should give that poor man the dignity of appearing in my dreams.  I feel like my subconscious is ignoring the poor dastard all over again.”

 

“Dreams don’t work that way, darling.  They tend to be pretty random.” 

 

“What were you just dreaming about, Sumia?”

 

“Pancakes.  My Pegasus and I were roaming through a country where all the castles were pancakes.”

 

Chrom gave her a soft laugh.  “I take it that you’re hungry.”

 

“A little, but not enough to justify such a dream.  Flower-petals are more reliable for fortunes.”   

 

“The strangest thing,” Chrom said softly, “is that I’m not even dreaming about Robin lately when I think he should be the stuff of bad dreams.  No nightmares about him at all and I _saw_ him – what’s left of him, anyway – as a Risen in the field! I mean, I had some nightmares a few days after we lost him – me trying to save him, being frozen in place, one where I died and he was screaming, trying to save me – stuff like that.  After that, if he shows up in a dream at all, he’s just around camp or around the palace like old times – worlds my mind makes where he never died.  We’re about to ride out and search for him again and… I’m dreaming of my poor sister.” 

 

“Maybe it’s because you were closest to her,” Sumia offered.  “Maybe your mind is taking all of the stress you’ve been under with our losses and bitter discoveries and is putting them all on a single image.” 

 

Chrom sighed.  “Maybe it’s something else.  Kellam had a proper ceremony, enough to rest on.  Robin… is not at rest, but we are trying to do something about that.  Emmeryn… I never… we never…” 

 

Sumia rubbed his shoulders.  “Love… she wanted us to live.  She wanted you to live.” 

 

“I know,” Chrom answered softly, “But I can’t help but think about it, even after all this time.  She never came home, Sumia.”

 

“It’s natural.  I miss her, too. We all loved her.”

 

“What time is it?”

 

“By the light of the window, I’d say a couple of hours before dawn?”

 

“Good,” Chrom said, getting up. “Dawn’s the time to begin a proper march.  I don’t think I’m going to be getting back to sleep. I might as well make ready and rouse anyone who is ready to be roused.” 

 

Sumia yawned.  “Icewhite will be expecting her breakfast soon.  I’m so glad we picked up that sweet Donnel-boy.  He’s such a help with the hay-bales.”

 

And so, the day the Shepherds set out to seek more of Lucina’s friends and to continue the hunt for the Risen-of-Robin commenced. 

 

 

 

 

Sumia poked her head into the royal library.  The tender shafts of dawn had begun coming in through the large, arched windows.  It was one of the best-lit rooms in Ylisstol, during both night and day, for appropriate reasons. Assistants were putting the lanterns out as day streamed in over the tables and the well-stocked shelves.  Sumia dared not go near them for fear of starting a fire like that one time. It had been quickly doused, but the assistants still gave her cautious looks.  The queen sought out the long shelf of magical tomes for the sake of weapons-stocking the war-convoy.  She was also interested in talking out any other kinds of books they might need – tactical manuals, medical guides, cookbooks and, of course, fiction to keep readers of the camp entertained.  Some of the more “no-nonsense” Shepherds underestimated the power of good fiction to boost morale in those that, like her, loved stories.    

 

Right at the magic-tome shelf she sought, Sumia caught a glimpse of a furry little rabbit-tail sticking up from a figure that was bent over a bottom row, humming.  That tail even stood out from beneath a long coat, draped over the rest of its owner.   Taguel were not big on pants, apparently even when one might decide to don a coat wherever they went. 

 

“Morgan, good morning,” Sumia greeted. 

 

“Ooh! Hello, Lady Sumia!” Morgan said with a start, clutching a basic fire tome close to her chest. 

 

“You are taking to magic tomes now?” the Ylissean queen asked. “I thought that you might stick with Beaststones.” 

 

“Oh, no, my lady,” Morgan answered politely.  “If I transform while wearing Father’s coat, I’ll destroy it.  I’ve wanted to get good with magic for a long time.  I have an aptitude for it and I’ve known a little for as long as I can remember – which, I admit – isn’t very a very long time at all!  But I’ve been training!  I was looking to see what I might take for the journey.” 

 

“So, you are coming with us?”

 

“Oh, yes.  Lucina insisted and Lord Chrom said I have a lot of potential.  So, I’m coming along to find the other people that Lucina’s been talking about.”

 

“Do you know… the other goal of the mission?”

 

Morgan looked down. “Yeah… Mother told me.  Chrom, too.”  The Taguel-child looked up with a dangerous light in her eyes – in fact; it wasn’t just a reflected light from the windows that Sumia saw, but an edge of beast-form-red.  “I need to free Father from whatever is holding him! I know it’s just his body, but the indignity of it is something I will not stand!  Mother will be with us. She has someone to watch Little Me and Little Brother. Maybe I’ll get some memories back.  Okay… now where’s a nice, big heavy book with a sturdy cover…. Need something that won’t quite crack my skull but will…”

 

“Hold on!” Sumia yelped.  “I’m not going to let you hurt yourself!”

 

“But things work when you kick ‘em!” Morgan protested. “My brain needs a kick!”

 

Sumia sighed and put a pair of fingers to the center of her forehead.  “I have the feeling that we are going to have to watch you.” 

 

“I’ll be watching you, too!” Morgan chimed.  “What I mean is… I’m going to try to work up strategies for us, to keep us safe.”

 

“You’re our new tactician already?” 

 

“Uh, not exactly. I’m going to be working with Lucina.  Lord Chrom said he hasn’t been able to get into contact with a Mr. Virion, but if that happens, I’ll probably be under him.  Lucina says I was the Second Shepherd’s tactician in the future.  I’m not confident enough to be official yet.  Your husband said something like ‘better than none,’ and, well, I’m going to try to help in any way I can! I have a lot of catching up to do to be like Father.” 

 

“Well, you’re plucky… I’m sure you’ll do fine.  Just don’t trip, okay?”

 

“I’ll do my best!” 

 

“Say, Morgan? Do you have anything you’d like to read while we’re traveling?  I mean something fun, something to take your mind off work a little?  I find that we all need to relax during these campaigns. Do you have any kind of fictive stories that you like?  I manage that stuff for the convoy, too.” 

 

“Well, I found this in Mother’s home.”  Morgan pulled a small book out of a pocket in the interior of the long Plegian coat.  “The cover and inside-page summary looked interesting, but it still has a bookmark in it.  I don’t think Mother was reading it because it was tossed in a dresser-drawer, but someone was.” 

 

Sumia took the book in her hands, her eyes growing sad for a moment.  “ _Hylian Tales: The Twilight Princess._   This book is mine, actually. I’ve read it through a few times. I haven’t seen this in a long while.  Your…Your father was borrowing it from me.  I guess he never finished it.” 

 

“Then, I’ll just have to read it from the start and finish it for him.” 

 

Sumia smiled.  Morgan smiled back. 

 

 

 

     

**_Forward, march!_ **


	7. Bright Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgan begins her career as the Shepherds' hastily-recruited new tactician. The search for the remains of her father in this timeline in commences as various comrades from the future are discovered, instead. Meanwhile, Valm declares war and aid must be sought from an unlikely source. 
> 
> A focus on young Morgan, caught between life as a tactician and life as a Taguel.

**ARISE**

**Chapter 7: Bright Eyes**

The first time that Morgan had killed a man (at least the first time that she could remember such an act) was in a fortress as the Shepherds attempted to rescue a young woman from a duel that had become a trap.  Morgan had killed Risen a-plenty, but they did not count, being merely dark energies wearing the skins of those already dead.  If anything of the original person had remained in a Risen, she certainly considered it a mercy-killing.  She’d always thought the concept of killing a human being – or, indeed, a being of any sapient race, being herself a half-Taguel – as being markedly different.  To kill the living was to sever their soul and to take their life - their time - and to create a void for anyone who ever cared for them or needed them.  Risen inhabited a twilight.  People were unambiguous. 

 

The first time that Morgan had killed an actual person, she’d used a wind spell.  Her cast of Elwind whipped around the bandit that was readying a strike on Lucina, pressed in around him like a vortex, and in a critical blow, tore the air from his lungs. He lay on the stone floor momentarily gaping like a fish.  The strangest of memories had hit Morgan, then.  The amnesiac suddenly found a mental image of her father’s hands taking a fish she had caught from her and his voice telling her how to quickly dispatch a fish so that it would not suffer when being scaled and gutted.  He told her that men at sea would club large fish, but for the small ones, a pen-knife behind the eye did the job. 

 

Morgan had found herself unsheathing the sword from her belt and readying herself to plunge it right through the brain of the man she’d felled with the Elwind to end his suffering.  However, he stilled completely before she could do it.  She heard Chrom shouting for her and ran on ahead. She stayed by Lucina’s side the rest of the battle, cutting down others with the swordswoman. 

 

She did not give her “milestone” any more thought after that day.  The memory of that “first blood” did not come to her at all until she was surrounded by a scent of salt and charcoal in the air some weeks later. 

 

The battle at the fortress had been fairly swift and in the end, she’d met another one of Lucina’s friends, a lady-knight named Kjelle.  She and Morgan became fast friends in the ensuing days as they commiserated over a common pain.  Both had looked forward to seeing their fathers again only to be given a void where they’d once been. 

 

Their respective timelines might have already been differing, but all worlds were cruel. 

 

After that, Morgan learned, for the first time, what it was to be a tactician who almost got their entire party killed by bandits.  Her impromptu plans had gotten everyone through the battle they’d found themselves in, but with many life-threatening injuries.  Part of the way into the battle, some of the enemy figured out what was going on and employed a strategy of “focus toward and kill the tactician.”  Gregor had blocked a fierce sword-strike for her and took a nasty cut on his chest.  Lon’qu took a spell-burn.  Even Frederick took an arrow-graze to the head.  Tharja just kept taking hit after hit and replenishing her energy with the Nosferatu-tome she carried.  She left messes of spattered blood both from herself and her enemies wherever she went.  Cordelia lost her Pegasus to arrows in the wing and throat.  She was forced to retreat and mourned the animal later. 

 

At the end of that mess, Chrom had managed to take aside the girl they had rescued from the slaver-band.  Despite being very much in need of the rescue and grateful for it, she had taken down some of her assailants herself with a sturdy bow.  The young woman, however, looked out over the field and started crying.  Morgan had not known what to make of her.  She seemed to be very sweet-natured, yet, when threatened, her personality had done a complete turn-around.  She’d fought like a demon.  She acknowledged her mother – Tharja, but seemed to be afraid of her.  She ran into Gaius’ arms. 

 

“It’s alright, Cupcake,” he said to the person who was a stranger to him and offered her a honey-pastry from one of his many sticky pockets.  Morgan felt the need to stick by Lucina and to apologize to everyone.  She watched as Lissa tried to strip off the back from Libra’s robe to take care of a battleaxe-wound he’d suffered when he’d broken off from the main group to try to heal Gregor. Her own axe was cast aside.  Anna bandaged up the old mercenary’s chest while Nowi whined in worry.  Morgan regarded Cordelia’s slain Pegasus – “Poor Snowmane,” she whispered. 

 

“It’s not your fault!” Lucina proclaimed, putting a hand on the young strategist’s shoulder.  “We were overwhelmed.  There wasn’t a lot of time for planning, either.  We had to act quickly.” 

 

“Still,” Morgan said.  “If Father were here… I’m sure none of us would have gotten hurt so badly.” 

 

“We got hurt with him around,” Chrom said, coming up behind them with future-child Noire in tow.  “You were wise to choose our healers for the party, even though they were wounded, too.”

 

“That’s what I feel so bad about.  Maybe I should have kept more of the medics in the backlines.” 

 

“They’re all weapons-wielders, even my ‘delicate’ little sister. I just took Noire here to see Lissa.  She would have bled out if you’d made a different decision.  You think like your father, kid, you really do.  You know who to have faith in and when.  We all appreciate it.” 

 

Morgan smiled. 

 

“None of us are dead,” Chrom said.  “Considering the size of that bandit-swarm, we all should be. Your father would be proud of you.” 

 

Morgan was beginning to blush. 

 

“Mr…Mr. Chrom? T-thank you,” Noire stammered.  She smiled when she regarded Lucina.  “I’ve finally found you,” she said timidly. 

 

“Noire,” Lucina answered, giving her a hug.  “I was so worried!  Are you really alright?”

 

“Yes,” the thin archer answered.  “It’s a good thing that you found Morgan first.  She’s much more useful than I am.” 

 

“And you are?” Morgan asked. 

 

“Morgan?” Noire asked, “Don’t you recognize me?  It’s me, Noire.  You know, the cursed archer!”

 

“She suffered amnesia upon coming to this time,” Lucina said solemnly.  “We’ve been getting her together piece by piece.” 

 

Noire smiled again, pointing to what Morgan was wearing and to the tome she was carrying.  “You look like your father.  Did you get to meet up with him in this time? Did he give you that?” 

 

Morgan responded by looking down, donning her hood and walking away to be alone. 

 

 

 

 

 

The Shepherds followed more leads across the land.  They saw neither rotten head nor silver hair of the late Robin, although they ran into a group of Risen that seemed to be under a command.  Cordelia was given a new mount, a black Pegasus-mare purchased from a breeder-farm.  The keepers of the farm assured that the equine was resistant to magic enough to be a good mount for a magic-user.  Morgan began slating tomes for Cordelia to use.  Even though she was green with them, she was good with a lance and thus joined the advance-party that entered the old mansion. 

 

They were going to quietly ride on past the place until they heard a very human scream.  Actually, it was not entirely human.  Nowi recognized a Manakete-noise within the shout, which made everyone even more curious about its source.  Within the dilapidated manor, the war-party discovered a young girl who went by the improbable name of Nah.  Nowi and Ricken were even more surprised to discover that she was their future-daughter.  The pair had not yet done anything close to making children together.  Ricken blushed profusely. He was definitely waiting until he got taller for that. 

 

He and Nowi had not established a marriage at this point – they’d just liked each other a lot.  Nowi’s childlike nature despite her being in excess of one-thousand years old strangely comforted Ricken and helped him allow himself to keep his own youthful spirit for just a little bit longer.  The revelation that they would become husband and wife in the future and have a child was something that had sent poor Ricken to the floor.  As for Nowi, she was happy to have another Manakete playmate.  Nah did not seem to be as happy about this, particularly in a place crawling with Risen.    

 

The Shepherds were pelted with dark magic throughout their “stay” in the mansion.  Chrom got to a point where he was cursing as much as Sully.  That stuff hurt.  It cracked up the spine, attempted to twist the bones and drained health from the blood. 

 

When Morgan found herself against a pair of heavily armored foes that stood in a crumbled doorway, she nodded to her mother, stripped off her coat and tossed it to Lucina and, with Panne, joined into a hairy-Taguel-cannonball barrage that sent armor clattering to the floor.  As the smoke of fallen Risen vanished into the air, Panne nodded to her daughter from outside of time. 

 

“It is good to know,” she said, “that you carry the fury of our race.” 

 

Morgan donned the coat and the “tactician” class again as soon as she possibly could.  She would continue to keep her species in mind – with all of its advantages. 

 

 

 

 

 

When the Shepherds returned to Ylisstol to stock supplies, rest, check upon their families and to heal, Chrom received ill news.  The messenger had the audacity to request entrance to the throne room when the Exalt-who-refused-the-title was holding his infant daughter.  He was rocking Young Lucina in his arms, holding her close to his chest and making what Sumia termed “the stupidest, cutest faces” at her when he was given a request to join the Khans in Regna Ferox to help them address increasing problems with Valm.  Ylisse, as Ferox’s ally was honor-bound. 

 

Lucina- the elder – became pale and grave.  She paced the throne room and spoke of how a war with Valm was a part of her timeline’s history and was part of the events that had led up to the doomed future she had escaped. 

 

“It’s potentially even more complicated now,” she said, groaning “No… no…” 

 

Sumia hugged her and rubbed her back. 

 

“Can you tell me more about how things went in your version of history?” Chrom asked. 

 

“Well, for one, you had Robin with you,” Lucina said.  “I am not well-versed on the Valm campaign, but I know that he got the Ylissean forces through it with minimal casualties. He’d gained allies to the Shepherds, too.  We do not have him now.” 

 

“We do have his daughter,” Chrom replied.  “She is… she is the only strategic mind that I’ve seen hold a candle to his.” 

 

“I know, but…” Lucina sighed.  “This is on top of the possibility- nay, fact, if he is a Risen - that Grima is trying to use his body.  The Fell Dragon has not yet awakened, but… how long do we have?”

 

“Well,” Chrom suggested, “I do wonder if it is possible to divide up our forces in some way.  One party continues the Robin-hunt; the other deals with Valm should peace negotiations fail.  I do wish I was a better diplomat.  I could take the reserve forces of our standing army and entrust the Shepherds to you for the hunt.”

 

“Inadvisable,” a voice said from the hall.  Morgan stepped forth holding a small, furry creature in one arm.  Another little fluffball bounced at her feet. 

 

Lucina, usually such a serious being, lost all composure.  “So cute!” she cried as she fell to her knees to scoop up a young rabbit-version of Yarne and to give the bunny-version of young Morgan that the elder was holding a pet. 

 

“I decided to try to train them on Beastones early,” said Morgan. “Mother approved as long as I was willing to clean up any messes they make.  “Be gentle with my little brother.  He’s rather wary and likes to be warm.” 

 

Lucina stood and let Yarne practically burrow into her chest.  She laughed and stroked him gently.  “The big Yarne from my time tried to do this too,” she said.  

 

Everyone else’s faces went agape.  Chrom glared daggers at the blue-clad bunny.  Sumia just gasped and took the baby from Chrom’s arms before her dropped her. 

 

“I never said I let him get this far,” Lucina said flatly.  “And, no – we thought of each other as cousins although we weren’t blood-related.  I just accepted that Taguel are a bit more into instincts than human males are.”

 

“If you say so, Lucina,” Morgan said, her face wary.  “I think if we find him, I’m going to hit him.  Hey! Why does that feel familiar?” 

 

“You two fought like siblings, of course!” Lucina answered.  “It should be a familiar feeling.  I think he was a little more Taguel than you are… You’d tug his ear when he wasn’t acting human enough around us.  Something like that.” 

 

Morgan sighed.  “Anyway, Lord Chrom?  I do not think it is a good idea to divide the forces.  I’ve been looking over the rosters and the entire Ylissean army is stretched thin.  The Pegasus-knights were nearly wiped out… Yeah, I’ve been reading about the last war. There is no navy.   Recruitment is down, despite Sir Frederick’s best efforts… considering that one poster I saw, maybe _because_ of Sir Frederick’s best efforts.”

 

Chrom suddenly got a panicked look.  “What?” he yelped, “Those things still exist?  I thought I’d destroyed them all!”

 

Sumia giggled.  “Oh, honey, some things do need to be kept in the records, right?”

 

“Not something like that!”

 

“I do hope we are talking about the same poster…” Morgan cautiously interjected.  “The… rather risqué one?  Or, shall we say, Lord Chrom as a classic titanic figure?”

 

“What? I don’t get it…” Lucina said. 

 

“This isn’t something I’d rather discuss in front of my daughters, thanks,” Chrom said, “nor in front of any children.”

 

“I’m grown!” Morgan protested.  “Anyway, I can contact the print shop and have the artisans make something without you in the buff…”

 

“WHAT?”  Lucina squeaked. 

 

“It’s a long story,” Sumia answered slowly and gently. 

 

“I found only one poster,” Morgan said, trying to be assuring, “But I came across a record of it being distributed around camp and being a surprising morale-boost.  Actually… I found it among Father’s records.  I think he may have been saving it for blackmail.” 

 

“Crafty tacticians…” Chrom muttered.  “Never trust one’s advisors overmuch…”

 

“He probably wasn’t going to do anything really horrible with it,” Morgan said.  “I’m sure… he’d had more in the way of a joke in mind. Father from my time was very playful.”

 

Chrom regained his composure.  “So, what are your suggestions for going about this recent development?”

 

“We can try diplomacy first!” Morgan proclaimed, holding up a finger in a triumphant motion.  Her tiny bunny alternate self burrowed beneath the shelter of her coat. “You do have charm.  After that, if that fails… we’ll see. We should assess the situation first. I’d like our strongest to come to the meeting, just in case something goes wrong, and armed, but as concealed as possible so as not to look like an open threat.  We’ll try not to let anything go south.”

 

Chrom smiled.  “We should prepare a party as soon as possible.  Morgan, I really do think that having you is like having Robin resurrected.” 

 

Morgan simply looked at the floor, her face red with embarrassment from the highest praise.  “Please… do not compare me so soon.  I know that I have much to learn.  I really do not feel that I can carry Father’s honor yet.” 

 

 

 

 

Things did go south at the northerly port.  The commander of the Valmese vanguard made clear that in the name of Walhart the Conqueror (such a “lovely” name everyone in the Shepherds decided) that his men were going to storm the land, pillaging and destroying anything they could like a plague of locusts.  A random unarmed merchant was murdered in the open air for the crime of “backtalk.” 

 

Armed with his impulsive sense of justice (and swords of varying skilled edges) Chrom led a charge to rid the port of the invaders.  More would come – more than they could possibly fight just waiting around in port.  Khan Flavia and Khan Basilio talked of poor provisions for a navy.  Morgan wracked her brain trying to remember just what her father had done in the time that she knew from his old war stories.  They definitely needed a navy and there was no time to build one.  The young Taguel-halfling consulted the Rules of Robin for what to do in a situation in which one was backed into a corner. 

 

“Father never made it clear which nation had helped Ylisse… or maybe it’s just that I can’t remember.  I have so many gaps!” 

 

Lucina took a tome away from her before she could hit herself in the head with it.

 

“I think Plegia is the obvious choice to beg for aid, but… really? Plegia?” 

 

Chrom stiffened.  So did Lissa. 

 

“Rosanne cannot help, most lovely lady…” Virion said.  “That much is terribly obvious.” 

 

The Shepherds had reunited with Virion during the initial summit, before they’d moved into the port.  He and a servant of his, Cherche, had fled their country as Walhart’s troops had stormed in.  Morgan looked to him for help with tactics, having heard of his skills, but was still sizing him up.  He was silently doing the same to her. 

 

“I think we have to, Lord Chrom,” Morgan stammered.  Her “lucky rabbit’s foot” twitched as she spoke, scratching the ground.  “I think there is room to try to form an alliance with Plegia in this circumstance.  After all, this guy wants to take over not just Ylisse, or Regna Ferox, but the entire continent!  We have what you would call one of those ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’ situations!” 

 

Lucina sighed.  “I see history repeating itself, but… I can foresee it being much worse.”

 

“I suppose it is decided, then,” Chrom said. 

 

 What Morgan did not know was that, upon entering the palace in Plegia later, she would find not only what the Shepherds needed – she would see her father again: Found, yet lost forever. 

 

 

 

**Forward, march!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The recruitment of all the little Marty McFlys here is using artistic license. I thought it would be fun to write some of the future-children as showing up before their parents were married. Also, the order of the recruitment vs. events in the main game’s story bears almost no resemblance to how I’ve picked them up in any of my playthroughs of Awakening so far. I’m not overly concerned with rhyme or reason in this regard._
> 
> _I’ve also been looking at a webpage with the support conversations in order to check up on anything I am unsure of because of forgetfulness or missing / never getting a particular support. In some of my research I noticed just how drastically different Female!Morgan’s conversations go with Yarne depending upon whether or not she has a sibling relationship with him. The non-sibling is downright mean to him while the little sister Morgan is nothing of the sort! The sibling support conversations had Yarne as a protective big brother to a gentle, but eccentric sister! Hence, just a warning not to be jarred by this fic if you played with a different Fem!Morgan. Canon differences happen if you tweak her species, apparently.  
> _


	8. One of a Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lost members of a fractured family start coming together. 
> 
> Some reunions are to joy. Others are to sorrow.

**ARISE**

**Chapter 8: One of a Kind**

“Morgan?  Is it really you?  It is! It is you! Mooooorgaaaaan!” 

 

Morgan stared blankly at the very happy rabbit-man who was jostling her shoulders.  Her mother stood by the door of the tent, her arms crossed and sighing. 

 

“Morgan?  What’s wrong? Are you ill?” the young male Taguel inquired. 

 

“I...uh,” the girl began.  She scrunched up her nose.  “Who are you?” she asked.

 

“What do you mean who am I?” the boy asked, “I’m your big brother, Yarne!  Morgan…is this one of your pranks, because if it is, it’s not funny!  I woke up in this world alone and, well… I was sure I was going to get killed! – And without you around, that meant the extinction of our entire species!” 

 

Morgan brushed his hand off of her.  “I am told that we are rare…”

 

“She doesn’t remember us, Yarne,” Panne said from her place leaning against the tent-post.  “She’s been able to recover one vague memory of me and that is it.  Something happened to Morgan to make her lose her recollection of anyone besides your father.   

 

Yarne’s face fell and his ears – which lay flat already – drooped.  “You don’t remember us, Morgan?” he asked sadly.  He turned around, his back to her.  “I don’t remember much about Mom and Dad… They were gone when both of us were little, but I did my very best to be a good big brother to you.  We always had each other.  Everything around us was trying to make us extinct, but we were each other’s warren.”  He turned around again, trying to keep tears from forming in his eyes.  “You have to try to remember, please?” 

 

“I’ll do my best,” Morgan answered, “but…I don’t even remember Mother.  I’ve tried to really hard!  I’ve looked into her eyes and she’s told me stories… I’ve hit my head a lot!”

 

“Don’t do that!” Yarne screeched, “What if you scramble your brains or something? You could get really hurt!” 

 

Panne laughed softly.  “I’ve got everyone in the Shepherds watching her to make sure she doesn’t do that anymore.  It just wouldn’t do for us to end up with a brain-damaged tactician.”

 

“A tactician?” Yarne asked.  “You’ve achieved your dream of taking up after Father? I mean, you’re wearing his coat, but…”  He turned around and looked to Panne.  

 

“She has his job,” Panne confirmed. 

 

“Is he sick?”  Yarne asked.  “I mean, I haven’t seen him around the camp… I thought he must be busy or at the castle or somethin’.  The Shepherds are supposed to be alive, right?  That’s what Lucina said.”  Panic mounted in his voice. “I really want to see him!  I was just a little bunny when he disappeared and didn’t come back, but I remember him!  I’ve missed him as much as I’ve missed you, Mom! Does he still make that carrot-stew that we always liked but that the humans really hated?”  

 

Morgan sniffed and hid her face with one of her oversized sleeves.  Panne sighed and sat down on one of the tent’s cots.  “Sit down, Yarne,” she said.  The young man obeyed, sitting down next to her. 

 

“Yarne,” she began, “I don’t know what Lucina told you about the timeline here in regards to yours after we picked you up, but not everything is quite the same.” 

 

“Tell me about it!” Yarne said excitedly, “The skies aren’t dark! We aren’t outrunning a dragon! The grass is green and there are a lot more people around!  It’s scary, but it’s pretty awesome!  And you’re here, so it means our race has more than just me and Morgan now!” 

 

Panne decided to be blunt.  “Your father is dead, Yarne.”

 

The male Taguel’s lower lip trembled.  “Wh-what?” He shook his head.  “No… No… it can’t be like this!” 

 

Morgan hiccupped. 

 

“He disappeared again, like last time?”

 

Panne put a hand on his shoulder gently.  “No, Yarne.  In this world, he is confirmed dead.  He was killed in a battle and we buried him.” 

 

Yarne suddenly stood up and patted down all of his limbs.  He stared at his hand and held it up to the light of the hanging lantern in the army-tent.  “Am I fading away?” he yelped.  He suddenly jumped to and grabbed Morgan, stroking her hair and examining her face.  “You feel solid! Are we fading?” 

 

“Relax,” Panne hissed, gritting her teeth. “Please… I did not expect my son to grow up to be such a craven! Even in the event of my death!  Your Taguel bloodline is one of strength! Your father’s blood was never certain, but he certainly deserves a legacy of intelligence!  Right now you are acting to neither courage nor brains!  The timeline here is different!  If you haven’t faded off now, you are not going to, besides…”

 

Morgan finished for her with a small, soft laugh and a smirk gracing her features.  “Yarne…easy.  We were both already born here.”

 

“What? How?” 

 

Panne smiled. “My body was blessed with children before your father was taken from me. You two appear to be elder and younger from your time, but here, you were born in the same litter.  My bunnies are in the care of friends back at Ylisstol. It may be strange that I am trusting humans, but I learned to trust your father. I regret leaving, but I must safeguard their future…and pay my debts.”   

 

Yarne’s face lit up.  “Little Morgan and little me?” 

 

“The littlest!” Morgan answered, smiling sweetly.  “The other-us are both very cute. We are slated to make a stop in Ylisstol after our business in Plegia, so we can take you to see them.”

 

“Bunnies!” Yarne shouted happily. 

 

“If you stick with us, you’ll meet them,” Morgan said.  “No more going off with shady brigands!” 

 

“Hey! I had to do what I could to survive, right?” Yarne excused himself.  “It was nothing personal! I didn’t want to fight! They roped me into it!” 

 

“I will shape you up,” Panne said, rubbing the bridge of her nose.  “Our race will not survive as cowards.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 The scent of human male sweat and the stench of the sweat of mares was a sharp stab to a sensitive Taguel nose.  The sun’s light as well as its heat was oppressive, making Morgan think that it made very much sense that the people of Plegia had a reverence for the darkness. Her coat actually did quite a good job of keeping her cool – as fine a job as it had keeping her warm when she’d been in Regna Ferox.  It shaded her skin and the hood shaded her eyes, keeping the desert-light from being blinding.  She could not keep herself from panting, however.

 

She rode behind Chrom and Frederick and the rest of a portion of the army rode behind her.  She was chosen to come as Chrom’s advisor and also because correspondence had earlier revealed the desire on the part of Plegia’s new king to meet Chrom’s tactician.  The prince was certain that the writer was requesting an audience with Robin, but that was no longer possible.  Frederick was as wary as ever and Chrom was mildly nervous. Morgan could tell by the subtle sound of their heartbeats on the air.  It was a trait that she shared with her mother, she had learned.  Yarne could do it, too.  To her disappointment, Morgan learned that her father never had that ability, as it was a Taguel-trait, but he’d made up for it by being sharply observant of people in other ways.     

  

The air was blessedly cool when the three of the entered the palace.  Chrom and Frederick were visibly uncomfortable when a woman dressed with black feathers showed up.  “A vicious war-enemy,” Chrom whispered to Morgan as the lady led them down a hallway. 

 

Morgan nodded.  “We need to forget that for the time being,” she replied, “If we are to get what we need.”

 

His heartbeat jumped when they met with the king.  In fact, Chrom’s face took on the look of a man who’d been spooked by a ghost.  When he got a chance to whisper to Morgan, such a notion was apparently not that far off.  He’d apparently seen this “Validar’ person in the context of a battle and was certain that he and her father had killed him.  Frederick, for his part, was sure that he’d carried the man’s body out of Ylisstol-palace with those of others who had tried to assassinate Chrom’s ultimately ill-fated elder sister. 

 

“I understand our mutual dilemma,” Validar said, stroking his long beard. Morgan did not know why, but she had an urge to yank it.  It was just hanging there, begging to be yanked hard.  “Is this your tactician?” he asked, leering down at Morgan. His stare made her feel like there were worms wriggling beneath her skin. 

 

“Y-yes, sir,” Morgan said hesitantly, “Um…the acting tactician.”

 

“Acting?  Still, so young.  She is not whom I was expecting, Lord Chrom.”

 

Morgan noticed something off with the Plegian king’s smile.  It wasn’t just that it was the smile of someone who probably ate puppies; it was a smile that bespoke his knowing something – a dishonest smirk.

 

“This Morgan,” Chrom explained. 

 

“I do not believe that she was with you during the war.  My dear Aversa and I were hoping to see the man whose brain was so formidable – a Sir Robin, wasn’t it?”

 

“I am afraid that he fell to Gangrel,” Chrom explained, “before Gangrel fell to me.” 

 

“That is unfortunate for you,” Validar said.  “Lady Morgan has stepped into quite a long shadow.” 

 

The group discussed their terms.  Morgan emphasized that Valm was currently a shared enemy and how much it would be in Plegia’s best interest to aid Ylisse at this time.

 

“I am afraid that the last war has ravaged us and that we need all of our remaining citizens, including the military, for rebuilding efforts,” Validar explained smoothly.  “We can, however, provide you ships and supplies.  We trust you to make wise use of them.” 

 

After that, Aversa began describing how her master had gotten through the hardest of times through his faith.  The two of them decided that since Chrom was so gracious to bring his tactician before them by request that they would present to them someone who was very important to Plegia and to Validar personally. 

 

“This is our hierophant,” she said. 

 

“You lead the people in worship?”  Morgan asked the mysterious, hooded figure.  She noticed that their robes were just like her own and felt very strange and self-conscious about it.  She’d known that her father’s useful coat was of a Plegian design and that he had been of Plegian ethnicity, even though the father of her time had claimed to have lived in Ylisse for all of his life.  As she recalled, he’d told her that he was a refugee from Plegia for unknown reasons.  He’d not remembered much of his life, but had remembered some of it – unlike the version of her father that had lived in this timeline, who, according to the Shepherds, had been a complete amnesiac when Chrom had found him, much like her.

 

The heirphophant’s hooded head turned subtly toward Morgan.  “Quite a strong young soul…The resonance is great, even if she is half-blooded,” the person hissed.  Morgan recoiled. Every Taguel survival-instinct was screaming “This is a predator!” within her. 

 

“Would you mind removing your cowl?” said Frederick, irritated.

 

The mysterious priest let their hood drop.  A woman with white hair smiled strangely at Morgan.  Morgan could have sworn that the woman looked like she could be a twin sister to her late father. The facial structure was very similar.  The woman turned to Chrom.  “Do you see something you like, Lord?” she asked. 

 

Chrom shook his head and scowled. 

 

“Perhaps in another life,” the hierophant said cryptically. “Maybe I should take a form that you can better understand.” 

 

With that, the hierophant put their hood up. She then put it back down to reveal a familiar, masculine face framed by short, shaggy hair.

 

“R-Robin?” Chrom asked.

 

“Father!” Morgan exclaimed.  Before she could get a hold of herself, she ran toward him and threw her arms around his waist. 

 

“Gah!  Unhand me, brat!” the doppelganger yelped.  He pushed Morgan off harshly. 

 

“F-Father?” the girl quavered, stepping back. 

 

“You are not mine, half-beast!” 

 

“Robin?” Chrom asked again.  “No… it can’t be.  I buried him.”  Chrom scrutinized the figure.  He did not look like the Risen he’d seen out in the field the day Kellam was slain. What he was seeing before him was a living body.  The eyes, however, held a malice he had never seen in his friend’s.   

 

“Not to mention that he was not a shape shifter,” Frederick said, his eyes narrowed at the person before him and at King Validar. “At least, not that we knew of.” 

 

“I can assure you,” the hierophant said, “that I am not this ‘Robin’ of which you speak. However, I did wish to meet you.  Now that I have, it has, shall we say, made my day.  Good day to you.”

 

With that, Robin’s look-alike put his cowl back up, flashing a disturbing leer toward Morgan. After that, he walked back into the shadows into which he came. 

 

“The promised ships will be delivered to the port you have designated in due time,” Validar said.  “You and yours are dismissed, prince of Ylisse.” 

 

 

 

 

In an inner room, one marked hand grabbed another.  One hand had skin like milk, the other like leather, only half-alive. 

 

“One of the offspring came to this time,” the lively-person said softly. “The other probably has joined her.  The girl-child has just what we need to bring us to life as we are meant to be.  If the boy-child has come, as well, we will be even stronger once we devour them.” 

 

“Do we only need one?” the dry-skinned Risen croaked from the throne of cold granite he rested upon. 

 

“It is likely we will only require one should the other elude our grasp.” 

 

“I still need the Emblem!”

 

“Of course. Even I failed to fully-awaken.  Time, dear ‘brother,’ dear self.  Our plans shall not fail – even if they must be run through a rotten brain.”

 

“I am tired. I am sluggish.”

 

“The other soul fights me… even still. The sight of the daughter brought his will up in me for just a moment. I felt him leap within me and I silenced him before he could speak.” 

 

“Pitiful creatures…” 

 

“Indeed.”

 

 

 

Chrom put a hand on Morgan’s shoulder as they walked through the place where he’d ordered a night-camp.  It was late afternoon and the sun was still glaring. 

 

“Are you going to be alright?” he asked with great concern. 

 

Morgan sighed.  “I think so.”  She looked down.  “That man…that… whatever he was… wasn’t my father.”

 

“Whatever he was?”

 

“He didn’t smell right.  He smelled like a lizard.” 

 

“I didn’t think lizards had a smell.”

 

“It was subtle and a little bit like raw chicken….kind of bloody.  I smelled death on him, too – not like a dead thing, but, like when something just dies.” 

 

“I am afraid that I do not have a Taguel-nose,” Chrom said. 

 

“He didn’t have my father’s heartbeat, either.  Something was different about it… something was off.  Don’t worry about it, okay?”

 

“I can’t help but worry.  I don’t know what kind of trick Validar is pulling on us.  I wonder if there is some kind of a bad potion in the water here or if one of his dark mages concocted a powerful spell to try to soften our minds.” 

 

“Maybe…” 

 

“Well, we don’t know anything about your father’s past,” Chrom offered.  “It is plausible that he had a twin brother…sister…brother-sister… though I never would have guessed he was connected to such high ranks…” 

 

“He had memory problems in my time, too,” Morgan explained. “He knew some things about himself, but he never said anything about having living family; then again, I didn’t know Mother or Yarne until I came here because my head’s all messed-up!” 

 

They walked along the camp watching Frederick fussing over everything. So was Lucina. Stal was on cooking duty and Yarne and Noire were talking with one another.  Sumia, Cordeila and Ricken were watering the horses and Pegasi at the small stream that ran at the base of this canyon.  The stream was why Chrom had chosen the area for a camp.  His wife and his other knights had complained about lugging water for their animals.  Morgan disliked the feel of the canyon.  She kept watching the edges, high above, insisting that being in this hollow put them at a disadvantage should they be ambushed.  Chrom had told her to relax because if the Plegian army tried to do anything, it would constitute a war-crime under their treaty, which is something they did not want to risk after their defeat in the last war. 

 

“You did not account for Risen,” the half-Taguel said sardonically as she pointed to some shadows she saw gathering along the canyon’s lip. 

 

“What’s that?” Lissa exclaimed, pointing to a flock of dark-winged creatures that seemed to drop out of the sky. They gathered in a thick formation like a feathered tornado spinning around a single spot. 

 

“A murder of crows?”  Ricken asked, holding the reins of his black horse, jostling her reins and bit sharply to distract her out of a panic. 

 

“A MURDER! Ha-ha!” came a voice from within the spinning torrent.  “Oh, what do I do to join your CAWS?” 

 

The birds dispersed revealing a young man with bushy white hair in Plelgian dark mage robes.  He said something about searching for an old friend but how he decided that it would be fun to join the Shepherds in their fight.

 

He also informed them that they were surrounded. 

 

“Knew it!” Morgan hissed.  She ran to her family’s tent and grabbed a couple of trusty tomes.  She could already see Yarne trying to slink away.  “No you don’t!” she yelled at him, “You and Noire hold the black lines – center of the camp!” 

 

She pointed to Miriel, “How about you team up with the newcomer?” 

 

And so, the Shepherds fought their way out of another tight spot.  At the end of it all, injuries were minimal, Chrom was certain that their Risen-visit was no accident, but had no way of proving it, and they added a second dark mage to their number. 

 

Tharja, for her part, did not seem to know Henry personally, but knew him through brutal rumors.  Most members of the camp were suspicious of him, for he smiled disconcertingly all the time and spoke happily and at length of blood, wounds and death.  It seemed to many, as they packed up and made their way onward, that the young man had sought to join the Shepherds precisely because he did not think they were going to come out of the next war victorious and he was looking for a way to orchestrate his own bloody demise while taking others down with him. 

 

Some of the children of the future, however, knew him by name and description to be the father of one of their number that they were searching for.  According to them, at some point, through a mutual interest in biology and in the more arcane forms of magic, he and Miriel got together to do experiments in the conjuring of children, resulting in a beloved, even-tempered and sharply-intelligent young man named Laurent. 

 

Miriel, of course, thought this was preposterous. Henry, for his part, said that he wasn’t much for romance, he was just marching with them all so he’d have a chance to make things explode in juicy and festive ways. 

 

That is, the pair did think that romance was unlikely between them until the party found Laurent.  The poor man was lost in the desert and was… older than the future children had remembered him – he was a few years older than Lucina, in fact.  This was from a glitch in the time-gate they’d all passed through.  The young mage had been alone in the middle of nowhere, surviving in isolation for years.  Upon meeting Miriel the two talked at length in regards to ascertaining her parentage. 

 

 

When the group got back to Ylisstol, they were slated not to be there for long – only for as long as it took to stock up on supplies, a few days at the most.  There was no time for proper rest. 

 

Panne thanked Libra for taking care of her young children.  She decided to switch-off this time, because Chrom decided that both a healer and a man good with an ax was needed for at least the first leg of the coming campaign. 

 

The young bunnies quickly became the delight of Yarne’s heart.  His normally-shy younger self took an immediate liking to him.  He fell into the role of a big brother or a big, cuddly uncle well, holding them and teaching them words – although little Morgan was already starting to become a chatterbox.  The Taguel grew at a slightly more advanced rate than human children, but Morgan was particularly precocious. 

 

Yarne was quick to teach the pair his favorite game: “Hide.”  It was not “Hide n’ Seek,” it was just “Hide.”  He showed them out to sit flat amongst the shadows and how to squeeze into tight spaces.  It was a game of the wilds and something deadly-serious to a survivor of a blighted world such as himself.  How he’d patterned it for the children was meant for fun.  He tried to get young Lucina to join in, as she was getting to crawl and to toddle everywhere by now, but she didn’t seem to have the understanding of what he was trying to teach her, or, perhaps, just lacked the instinct.  She was tinier than his young self and the littler version of his little sister. 

 

Of course, young Morgan tended to turn games of “Hide” into “Hide n’ Seek.”  An incredibly brainy baby, she quickly started wriggling out of her hiding spots to puzzle out where her twin brother and her big-big brother were and launched jumping ambushes.  Thankfully, no blood was spilled, as these turned into tickle-fights and Beaststone-transformation bunny-chases if they were outside in the gardens or fields. 

 

“You’ve just gotta make more, Mother!”  Yarne insisted to Panne as they lounged in Panne’s chambers.  The young ones were seated on the floor drawing in a blank book with colored wax sticks while Panne was reading a book about gardening and cultivating rare, wild-breed vegetables.  Yarne, however, was up and pacing. 

 

“I know you love your new siblings, but does it look like I am about to take on another litter? With whom?”

 

“Find a man, Mother!”  Yarne said to her shock and irritation.  “It’s for the good of our race!  We need to make as many of us as we can to repopulate the species!”

 

Panne gave him an “Ugh,” noise and grit her teeth.  “Your father was the first human I trusted enough to get to that point with, and even with him, it took a long time,” she tried to explain.  “He reached out first, wanting to know of our culture.  I have yet to meet anyone else who showed the interest and tenderness that he did toward me and toward us.  To tell you the truth, there was something about him that seemed a little ‘left of human.’  He was a special man, Yarne.  In many ways I am still mourning him.  You cannot press me into that kind of trust.  It will happen when it happens or maybe never again.” 

 

“You don’t need trust, Mother!” Yarne yelped, “All you need is someone to spend a night or two with you… With me here, I can help you take care of all my new little siblings!”

 

“Enough, Yarne.  Have you thought of creating children yet?”

 

The young man scratched his neck with a long, sighing pause.  “Um… no… actually,” he laughed awkwardly, “I’ve just been too busy trying to stay alive!  Besides…if I make bunnies… I’ll have to be with a human-woman and they’ll only be a quarter-Taguel!”

 

“It seems that you have retained enough of our traits to be rightfully called a pureblood,” Panne observed.  “It is the best our species can get, given our circumstances.  Your sister is a bit of a wild-card, but I am no less proud of her.  She has her father’s brains.”   

 

A knock came to the door and it creaked open.  Morgan the Elder entered, holding a ledger.  “Hey, there!” she said brightly.  “Yarne, I need to talk with you.” 

 

“Um… yes?” her brother inquired. 

 

“I am going to need you in the War Room shortly,” she said. 

 

“Wh-why?” Yarne stammered, knowing where this was leading.

 

“Strategy meeting,” she answered.  “I am going to need you for our first action.” 

 

“What? Sis?  Why me?  I wanted to stay here with the bunnies!  They need someone to look out for them!” 

 

“What they need is for the Valmese not to swarm over this land like locusts taking everything and killing everything that moves!  They have cavalry and I need someone who can unhorse a man in a flashing kick!  I need a Taguel.  I have myself, but that’s not enough.”

 

“But…Mom is the warrior!” 

 

“You are stronger than Mother, Yarne, and I’ve seen you work during those spots where we were ambushed by Risen.   I mean, before you ducked and ran and let the rest of deal with the problem…You can down a rotten horse-carcass and unseat its rider in two seconds flat! You’re stronger than you think.  I’ve done some thinking and between you and Mother, I’d rather have you in battle and leave her to bond with little-us for a while.”

 

“So, you wish to cheat me out of the glory of the kill?” Panne inquired. 

 

“No, Mother.  I am just thinking of relative advantages.  It’s what Dad would do, I think.  You trusted him, so trust me! I’ve been reading all of the stuff he left in his study!” 

 

Panne looked to Yarne, who looked uncomfortable.  She narrowed her eyes at him as baby-Morgan climbed up into her lap.  “If you do not go, I will,” she said. 

 

Yarne looked to the tiny half-human girl she held and to his other self with his long ears flopped over the pages of the coloring book as he doodled a misshapen circle.  “I’ll go, Mother,” he said slowly. 

 

Panne reached up and stroked his cheek and chin.  “Stay safe, my son,” she intoned.

 

“Heh, you know me, Ma.  I’m really hard to catch.” 

 

“Thank you, Yarne,” Morgan said with a sweet smile.  “Now, come on! We need you at the meeting and then to pack up. We’re moving out in the morning!”

 

“So soon?” the young man groaned. 

 

“Noire will be so happy.  I need her, too, and she was asking about you.” 

 

“Really?” 

 

“Come on, time’s a wasting!” 

 

Yarne looked over his shoulder as he left the room, bidding his mother farewell.  “While we’re out doing war, um…Mom?  Try to find a man, okay?” 

 

He made a squeaking noise and jumped out through the door as his mother threw her book at him.   
  
  
________________________________________________________

 

**_Forward, march!_ **

 


	9. Look to These Lives You've Saved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgan never thought she'd have such feelings about not seeing the faces of her enemies. She sets a fleet on fire so the Shepherds can sail on. War was an ugly thing, but her family and friends remain beautiful. She is told that her father would be proud of her. She gets to find out first-hand when a spell by Tharja goes wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for taking my sweet time getting more of this written. A number of factors have been involved to impede my progress. First, my writing style in general is less like making battle-plans and more like exploring an undiscovered country. Sometimes it takes a little while before the threads of plot that float around in my mind start letting me weave them into a tapestry. Beyond that, I’ve had my interest turned to other projects – I started another mutli-chaptered style fanfic (Super Smash Bros.) because I am a masochist and I’ve been working on editing and writing original projects. Add to that some household financial crisis, and there you go. I’ve only skimmed previous chapters I’ve done to this story, so if I am forgetting something, making any internal-continuity errors, I trust my readers more than my own brain to pick that stuff out. I think I’ve gotten everything in order, I hope so.

**ARISE**

**Chapter 9: Look to These Lives You’ve Saved**

She was in a blind panic.  The deck was slick beneath her feet, cold in contrast to the air.  Morgan hadn’t even realized these kinds of instincts were present in such force within her.  She fought very hard to get control of herself.

 

The sky was on fire and the waters of the sea surrounding the Ylissean ships looked like blood.  The air was hot even at this distance.  The young tactician’ heart was pounding from the effort taken by their leaping escape.  Her strong rabbit-legs sprang her from one unsafe deck to another, safe deck “like poetry” as Virion had described it.  The rest of the Shepherds that lead the assault either ran for the decks or took rides from their Pegasus Knights. 

 

The animals were not faring well in all of this.  The horses were panicked, those with wings especially. Their keepers struggled with reins and halters and sweet, soft words.   Morgan, herself, longed to run somewhere far away when there was nowhere to run to.  The smell in the air was horrible – oil and wood burning, a choking stench.  The Valmese navy lay broken and on fire in the distance as the Ylissean league was sailing away from it as swiftly as possible.

 

Another scent was on the air – one that Morgan doubted the others detected at this distance, but one she picked up.  Her brother probably picked up on it, too.  It made her feel ill.  In fact, it made her stomach growl, a strange and horrible whet to her appetite and this made her feel even sicker.  She hunched over the edge of her ship and let loose mostly sour water, for she had eaten little just before the battle.  Roasting meat.  She smelled roasting meat!  She knew that some of it had to be from horses and possibly from edible livestock the Valmese were brining as provisions, but she knew the truth of where most of that aroma was coming from.  The bulk of what she’d sniffed was people – soldiers cooking in their armor. 

 

As she steadied herself, Morgan suddenly remembered the face of her first human kill – or at least, her first kill in this past-land, the first death she’d ever dealt that she was aware of.  She remembered how the enemy fighter’s eyes bulged in surprise as he gaped, his breath sucked free of him by her use of mid-level wind-magic.  She hadn’t thought much about what it meant to take a life then.  She was too busy trying to protect her comrades.  She didn’t overthink it during other battles with human combatants, either – again, for the same reason.  Right now she had time to think about it.  Truly, it was done together – all of the Shepherds were in on this, but it had been her strategy.  

 

Morgan had been studying hard before the searoad battle. Laurent had been her assistant all up until they boarded their ships.  Her father’s book didn’t have this kind of plan detailed out, but there was a chapter upon the use of incendiary devices and one page with an illustration of a burning ship – done by someone else, the art had an imprint of balanced scales in lieu of a signature.  Sending a burning ship into a harbor or against a small fleet was an age-old naval tactic.  Morgan also remembered how she and her father would blow up homemade bombs out in a field, to “bust open some myths” about uses of oil and gunpowder.  Father, back in her world, had a tiny, almost undetectable scar on his cheek from a bit of shrapnel from one of these outings.  She had a feeling that Mother loathed these outings and had probably tried to forbid her from them – but she had no clear memories of anything Mother had done. 

 

The strategy had come from these memories and what bits were scrawled in Father’s book.  She had not known what he had done during the Valmese War in her world, because while he played out games with her, he never spoke much about his actual work. Maybe he had been trying to shield her from the stuff of war – allowing the intellectual work in it to be something of an abstract for her.  All she knew was that he was smart and had saved the lives of their people and there was nothing about him that she did not admire.  Morgan wondered if he would have done what she had done.  Probably.  She really couldn’t see any other way out of the situation.  In fact, though her idea for a strategy surprised the other Shepherds and the Feroxi-allies, it had seemed pretty obvious to her.  With the empty ships and all of the fuel oil the Plegians had given them, the solution seemed to be practically gift-wrapped.  

 

It was them or her friends.  If they had fought a conventional battle, using the decks as a level battlefield, the Ylissean forces would have been slaughtered down to the last man and woman.  Morgan knew that she’d carried the day with her idea to turn half their fleet into bombs, but between the heat stifling the air and the flames and the water reflecting blood, death en masse and the smell of cooking human flesh, she could not feel proud of this.  She could hear Flavia and Basilio’s shouts of triumph and calls for breaking open a cask of ale, but all she could do was to keep getting sick over the side of their vessel. 

 

“Hey, are you alright?” 

 

Morgan composed herself and turned around.  “Uh… Lord Chrom!”

 

“Are you alright, kid?” 

 

Morgan sighed. “Not entirely.”  She looked out over the flames, becoming ever more distant.  “I should be celebrating, right?” 

 

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” 

 

“Good.  Rabbit-instincts, you know.  We don’t like fire and noise.” 

 

Chrom stood beside her. “Soon we’ll be away from all of this and all we’ll see and smell is the salt-air.” 

 

“Right.” 

 

“The way the explosions went… well, we were all lucky to get away.”  Chrom issued a soft, nervous laugh. 

 

“All burning… people burning,” Morgan said distantly, one of her feet scraping against the ship’s deck in a twitch.   

 

“If it helps… the way everything went up?  I don’t think the Valmese had time to feel anything. Everything was hard and quick, just a lot of explosion.”

 

“Horses… hapless conscripts…I always knew war was ugly.” 

 

“It is.” 

 

“I didn’t know I’d have such a problem not seeing my enemies’ faces.” 

 

Chrom gently rested a hand on Morgan’s shoulder.  “I’m sure your father would have done the same thing if he were here – the same plan.  You just saved my nation.” 

 

Morgan turned to him.  That smile – Chrom had a winning smile.  It was one of those smiles paired with eyes that were subtly sad all the time.  “Come back to the center of the deck.  Look to the lives you’ve saved.” 

 

The young half-Taguel first caught sight of her brother and Lucina as she wandered back to the ship’s center.  The princess was sitting on a flat-topped chest, resting her back on barrels of fresh water.  Noire and Lissa sat next to her.  Yarne leaned upon Lucina, crying softly, his left arm bandaged and in a hastily-constructed sling.  Lucina held him gently around the shoulder and stroked his hair and one of his ears, telling him that he was alright. 

 

“Y-you fought well, y-you know,” Noire stammered. 

 

Morgan recalled Yarne facing down a Valmese mounted unit with a spear in his beast-form and getting a nasty slice to the forelimb with the spear right before taking the unit down.  He’d been right where she’d wanted him and had preformed.

 

He was more frightened than hurt.  He was scared, but he was alive. 

 

Gregor limped along, Anna frantically pursing him with a healing staff.  He’d taken a wound to the gut that he was shrugging off now.  No would could know it at the time, but he would die from an infection settling into the still-healing remnants of it several months from now upon it being re-opened in a scramble with Risen.  Aside from this unknowable eventuality, there were no fatalities among the Shepherds this day. 

 

“Hey, there, kiddo!” Vaike said, suddenly coming up behind Morgan.  “Let’s get you a drink!” 

 

Morgan smiled subtly as a mug of beer was thrust into her hands by Sully.  “Aren’t I a little young?” she asked. 

 

“Nah, drink up!” Stahl encouraged.

 

“You’re too young to be fighting a war, too, but here you are,” Cordelia said sweetly.  “Besides, you look like you could use it.” 

 

Morgan drank deeply and then immediately wrinkled up her nose.  “Ah… eh!  Can I have some sweetened tea instead?”

 

“Sure thing, Fluffy!” Gaius said.  – Leave it to him to have a cask of tea with honey on hand. 

 

As she watched Olivia dance on the deck and all of the Shepherds who were not wounded or tending the wounded clap and play whatever improvised instruments they had, Morgan was able to forget the destruction she had planned and they had wrought just a little bit.  The air was permeated with a wonderful and vibrant feeling. 

 

_We are alive! We are alive! We are alive!_

 

 

 

 

Some significant battles on the soil of Valm were over with some months later.  The war was far from won and the Shepherds took to camp in a peaceful clearing of wood to break a long march. Some allies were added to their number – a resistance fighter from Chron’sin and a few more of the “future children.”  They had another healer now and a couple of young, eccentric swordsmen.  Lucina told everyone that there were more of her companions to seek, including her younger sister – whom she was worried about. 

 

Tharja woke up in a bleary haze in her tent.  It was one of the few tents in use by a single person.  No one much wanted to risk sharing a place with Tharja during a certain time that plagued the female body – at least, that had been her excuse for kicking Gaius and Noire out to find other sleeping accommodations while she’d spent last night trying her hand at a dangerous, high-level spell.   She’d greased the appropriate symbols over a flat slab of wood, but since she had told no one of her doings this time, she’d only gotten small amounts of the necessary “sealing-blood” from a few of the Shepherds from scavenging used bandages from the medical tent.  As for the most important material component of the spell, she was very careful only to use a few drops so as not to waste the dwindling resource.  It was not anything she could procure ever again.   

 

As Tharja sat up in her cot, she noticed something distinctly off about this morning. Maybe it was that one of her hands seemed to be acting of its own accord – and not quite like what that newcomer, Owain, described his own hand as acting at times.  The hand pawed about her, exploring her hair and her face.  She also had the distinct impression that there was someone else sharing space inside her skull.  Yep. The spell had definitely gone in a different direction than she had intended. 

 

“Oh… you can keep touching there all you want, Robin,” she cooed when her right hand was gently cupping one of her breasts over her nightshirt.  It immediately went limp.  She felt a sense of very awkward apology ringing through her head. 

 

 _“So sorry!”_ the inner voice yelped.  _“I… Tharja?  I’m inside of you?”_

 

“Apparently so.  Like I said, you don’t have to stop.”

 

_“Uh… Let’s not and say we did.”_

 

“Oh, but you are – or were, when you were alive – a man of most of the usual predilections.” 

 

_“Yeah…but… I shouldn’t even be here.  Why am I here?”_

 

Tharja rose from her bed and brushed her hair out before a small mirror that hung on the inside of her tent.  “You are here because I summoned you from the depths again, only this time I apparently did not perform the spell precisely and you’ve latched onto my body.” She smiled wickedly. “I find it quite a favorable arrangement.  It is rather… intimate.” 

 

_“How do I get out?  I mean, no offense… it’s just… I don’t like the idea of taking over someone else’s body – at all.  Considering what I remembered in my last moments about my supposed purpose, this is rather uncomfortable.”_

 

“You needn’t worry, Robin,” Tharja replied, “Just as last time, the spell is temporary.  Even the best of dark mages cannot break the grip of death.  Let us have fun with this while we can, hmm?” 

 

Tharja began undressing.  Robin would have looked away out of politeness if he could have, but since he was seeing the world through Tharja’s eyes, it was impossible.  She lavished her gaze upon herself and chuckled dark and low in her devious manner.  She proceeded to get dressed for the day. 

 

“I can sense what you’re thinking,” Tharja said.  “You are thinking that I do have nice skin, quite silky. I sense that you have some mild regrets about not getting with me in life. I do have a nice body, don’t I?  It is a good way to get by in life, though I never got all I wanted. I also sense that I am lacking for you.  You had a thing for that bunny-tail, didn’t you?”

 

She felt the heat rise up in her cheeks.  So, aside from the thing with the hand minutes ago, Robin did have some mild control over her physical reactions…

 

 _“That. Is. Private!”_ the poor ghost practically shouted in her brain. 

 

“So I don’t have an extension of my tailbone that you can pet nor is my hair as soft as Panne’s… But everything else is quite in order.”  She examined herself in the mirror, as well as she could with how small it was.  “As you can see by my clothing, I am ranked a sorceress now.  I probably could not handle you … inside me…” this she said with a smirk, “if I had not achieved that level of skill. This is far from a simple channeling.  Hmm… since you are with me, I think we should take a walk around the camp.  It is before breakfast.  We can get your bearings back to reality.” 

 

She sensed the spiritual equivalent of a shrug from her occupant. 

 

The camp was quiet.  There were only a few people up and about in the dawn’s golden light.  The cavaliers and the Pegasus-riders were up tending to their steeds, as was usual. Lon’qu was peeling out potatoes for the morning meal and Donnel appeared to be taking inventory on the weapons.   Tharja could feel Robin smile as they walked past one of the tents. 

 

_“Chrom still has that snoring problem.”_

 

“Yes.  Amazing that he doesn’t wake Risen with it.  I’d call him a lay-about, but he was up to all hours, just as I was.  I heard him patrolling outside my tent.”    

 

_“We are not in Ylisse, are we?  The surroundings are unfamiliar to me.”_

 

“We are at war again, Robin.  This time with Valm as well as with the undead. We are far from home.” 

 

Tharja wandered into the empty War Tent.  “There were some dropped tomes in the last battle.  I am looking for something specific,” she said.  “Besides, this place should feel familiar to you.” 

 

For Robin’s sake, she sat down in the chair at the small desk.  She could feel him relax.  Her eyes scanned over the various letters and notes. 

 

 _“This handwriting does not look like either Virion’s or Chrom’s,”_ Robin said inside her brain.  _“Who is the tactician now?  I am curious.”_  

 

“It is… complicated.”   

 

“Shew! Cold! I hate dawn-patrol!” said the voice of someone young headed toward the tent. 

 

“Frost in my fur!” a distinctly male voice whined, “is it me or does Chrom like sticking the Taguel race on the worst patrol times?” 

 

A young woman entered through the open tent door, shaking the dew off her coat. “All I know is that Sumia or Gregor had better be making the coffee.  If Kjelle tries it again, that’s it, I surrender, the Risen can take me!”

 

She paused like a rabbit caught in a spotlight.  A larger Taguel male bumped into her from behind.  “Tharja, what are you doing in here?” 

 

“Just perusing the new tomes,” she laughed.  “I got a little tired so I sat down.” 

 

“The only people who are supposed to be in here are Chrom, Laurent and me.”

 

“Touchy, touchy.  Your daughter does have quite a bit of fire in her, doesn’t she, Robin?”

 

“Huh? Why are you praying to my dead father?”

 

Meanwhile, Yarne curiously sniffed the air like he’d caught a scent that no one else could fathom.  “Daddy?”

 

_“Y-Yarne?  M-Morgan? When you last summoned me they were…they were…”_

 

“Yes, darling,” Tharja responded to the voice in her head. 

 

_“How long have I been gone?”_

 

“Oh, not very long. These two are time-travelers.  This is going to take a while to explain.”   

 

_“Uh….”_

 

“These two are grown versions of your children from an alternate reality.  They came here with Chrom’s brat to try to stop the rise of Grima.  My own daughter is around here somewhere.  She’s as much of a wimp as your boy is, but apparently my other self in the future took care of that problem with a well-placed curse.  The girl here has become our tactician and you should be proud of her. She’s quite good.” 

 

“Who are you talking to and what’s going on?” Morgan demanded, stamping a foot.  “Has one of your hexes made you lose your mind again?” 

 

“I smell Dad, Morgan,” Yarne said.  “I don’t know how.  It’s not like on your coat, either.” 

 

_“I am not familiar with the type of thing I’m seeing.”_

 

“Maybe I should let you ride me a little, hmmm?” Tharja suggested.  “It shouldn’t be much of a problem for you to take over my vocal chords.  You already had some experience controlling my limbs.”  

 

“That’s it.  I’m getting Lord Chrom…” 

 

“Wait.”

 

Morgan turned around as she felt a hand upon her shoulder.  It was Tharja squeezing it, but the voice that had come out of the sorceress was decidedly different from her own – a clear, masculine voice. 

 

And a sound for sore ears.

 

“Wait…Morgan….” 

 

The girl turned around, her eyes wide. 

 

“Just what is going on here?” she whispered.  She could feel her own heart-rate racing.  Yarne’s heart was beating like a frenzied drum solo, too. Tharja’s heart was calm and steady.  

 

“Tharja did some spell-casting last night.  She seems to be partially challenging me or I am partially possessing her or something.  It doesn’t feel right to me, but for a little while, I guess, I am here.  This is the voice of a dead man – I am Robin.   Is it true that you are my child from another time?” 

 

Morgan gasped and tried to get her bearings.  Tears formed in her eyes just at hearing his voice.  “F-Father…” 

 

“Daddy!”  Yarne barreled into Tharja and wrapped his arms around him. 

 

“My host… is having difficulty breathing.” 

 

“Oh, sorry, Father, sorry!” Yarne said. 

 

Robin responded by hugging the boy.  Oh, he’d missed tactile sensation.  Tharja’s body, with its light clothing, created a great deal of opportunity for him to feel skin and fur against skin.  It made everything real.  He then hugged his daughter, slipping Tharja’s arms around his former coat. 

 

Given Morgan’s shorter stature, this was a little more awkward in the way of father-daughter bonding.  Her face was planted right in the marshmallow-hell that was Tharja’s chest. 

 

“Uh….” Morgan said suddenly, “Would you like to see Mother?  She came in with on a ship with reinforcements as soon as she got our letters and could find care for little us back at the capital.” 

 

Robin used Tharja’s face for something that was rare for the dark mage – a genuine smile.  Yarne took one look at it and hid behind a stack of tomes. 

  
  
____________________________________________________________________

 

 

As even the laziest of the Shepherds rose to greet the sunrise, everyone thought that the most exciting news in camp that day had been the deer that Noire and Gaius had brought back from the woods.  Despite his talk of his animal-friends, Henry was eager – perhaps a little over-eager - to help Donnel butcher it and Gaius was proud of his daughter for bringing it down without pain in a single shot.  There would be fresh meat for breakfast and lunch this day. 

 

“Ha-ha! I’m covered in blood!” Henry shouted as he capered through the camp to tease their dancer, Olivia, who wanted no part of what was happening at the camp’s edge.  She sought out Vaike to protect her from the “rampaging” Plegian. 

 

“Save it for the battlefield, will ya?” the ax-fighter grumbled. 

 

Robin, for his part, was pleased that the Shepherds hadn’t seemed to change much and that some of the ones that had been added to their number in his absence were as nutty as the original crew. 

 

Mostly, he kept his secrets.  Everyone saw Tharja wandering around the camp “spying” on everyone and that was what they were allowed to think.  Chrom, however, Robin spoke to openly.   He met Lucina.  She and Yarne straightened out the time traveling tale as best as they could. 

 

“I am so sorry that this happened to you,” Lucina said. “It seems like your spirit cannot even rest.” 

 

“Oh, I was resting,” Robin assured. “Or at least in the deepest of sleep.  It is Tharja’s insistence upon pulling me back every once in a while, it seems.  It’s touching that I am missed so much, but it is not necessary.” 

 

“Maybe it is,” Lucina suggested.  “If we can learn more from you, more about you in this time, perhaps we’ll have a better chance of averting disaster.  In my time, my Uncle Robin just vanished… lost on a mission.  From what Father has told me, your spirit seems to know more about a connection to Grima than the you of my time ever let on about.” 

 

Tharja’s face looked contemplative for a moment.  “Pity my past only came back to me when I was dying,” Robin said, and from what you have told me, it seems the worst of our fears has come to pass.”    

 

Chrom rested a hand on Tharja’s shoulder.  He never touched Tharja and his grip was the way in which he’d clap Robin when he was alive.  Robin looked up.  He’d always been short, but Tharja felt a little trimmer and smaller to him, and so it was a strange experience. 

 

“No,” Robin said, “I do not believe that Tharja would be able to reunite me with my body, and given the state you describe, it would be a nightmare.  Risen are to be turned into dust.  Just because one is derived from me does not make it an exception.” 

 

“Do you have any ideas upon how to defeat ‘you,’ then?”  Chrom asked. 

 

“Perhaps a strategy involving Maribelle’s best tea and your wife’s pies to set a trap,” Robin suggested.

 

“I’ll get started on it right away!” Morgan exclaimed.

 

“Morgan.”  Robin said. “That was a joke.”

 

Lucina blinked.  “Oh!” she said, as she had taken a while to break out of her puzzlement at such an odd suggestion. 

 

He then gave everyone a serious look through Tharja’s steady gaze.  “The best option, if, indeed, this undead, possibly –half-Grima version of me is commanding the enemy is to study everything I ever wrote down.  Think back to my past strategies – everything that worked.  Try to think like me as much as you can because if that remnant of a body is using the gooey remnants of my poor brain, it’s going to use MY tactics!  In fact, I need you all working together to surpass me.” 

 

Morgan shook her head softly. “Father… You were the tactician’s tactician! I’m trying my best to catch up to you!  I am hardly there!” 

 

Robin patted her on the shoulder.  “If all goes right with the world, children are supposed to surpass their parents.  I’m sure you’ll one-up me. I swear; if there is a way out of the Void for me, I will look down upon you with such pride that whatever star I am given in the heavens will rival the moon in shining brightly.”   
  
“We will free you from any connection, however tenuous, you have with Grima,” Lucina announced.  “I swear it.” 

 

“Panne…”

 

As soon as Robin saw the rabbit-woman, he moved toward her and threw his arms around her.   
  
“What is this? Tharja?”  Panne hissed and pushed him away. 

 

“Tharja is at rest, Cottontail,” Robin said, “She made me the victim of a temporary spell again.  I hope you don’t mind a hug in this body.” 

 

Panne squeezed the small body of the dark mage tight, ignoring certain assets.  Some of the men in the camp who saw this rose up a lustful cheer. 

 

“Uh… if you need the Vaike, he will be in his bunk,” one of the stricken warriors said. 

 

Robin trailed a hand down Panne’s back to give a gentle flicking pet to Panne’s tail.  Tharja had deduced correctly.  He’d always found Panne’s tail to be adorable.  He caught himself toothlessly nibbling on one of her long ears a little bit when he had to remind himself that he was borrowing a chassis and there was appropriate behavior and that which was not.  He’d just missed her touch so much. He suspected that Tharja wasn’t much to care, but his wife probably would later.  Robin just let himself be awash in Panne’s warmth, her voice and her smell. 

 

And then he felt himself fading.  He separated from Panne and looked toward Morgan.  “Take care of that coat,” he said hoarsely.  “I… I really liked it.  It’ll keep you warm.” 

 

And with that, he was gone.  Tharja blinked. 

 

“I’m back now,” she said.  “And if you need me, I’ll be in my bunk.” 

 

 

 

 

 

**_Forward, march!_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES FOR THE NEW READER: If you do not follow my profile / just binged-read through this and are disappointed at the suspension-notice currently posted upon the notes, I regret to inform you that I do not know if I will be able to pick up this story again. I had plans for it, but I was already having some problems with getting the various plot-threads to come together to my liking when I suffered a sudden onset of a life-threatening condition. Almost losing my life and my ability to write at all narrowed down the stories I wanted to focus upon. For fandom works, I chose another multichaptered / in-progress piece that my brain still had strong plot-threads for even during my recovery over this one. In other words - I fear how much of this story might have been blown right out of my head during my ordeal while another work in progress (as well as my original endeavors) have "stuck with me" better. I apologize for the inconvenience to readers who enjoyed this. I still have hope that I can make this work and finish out my original ideas for it someday.


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